Beaver Hollow. The scent of damp earth and tree bark hung heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance, the low hoot of an owl echoed — ominous, like a harbinger of something ill.

Though most of the gang had long since drifted into uneasy sleep, a suffocating tension lingered in camp. Distrust, doubt, lies, misunderstanding, despair — all twisted together into one heavy, smothering weight, ready to crack wide open at any moment.

John wasn’t sleeping. He couldn’t. His head buzzed with restless thoughts, swarming like hornets, offering no peace. He’d begun to see it — clear as day: Dutch couldn’t be trusted no more. Soon, all that would remain of the gang were scattered scraps of memory... But he kept pushing those thoughts away — despite Arthur’s words, who’d begged him to just pack up and run, while there was still time.

With a deep sigh, John let his gaze wander over the camp. When he noticed you were awake too, he finally made up his mind and walked over.

"Hey." — he said softly, lifting a hand in quiet greeting. — "Ain’t sleepin’ neither, eh? Hell of a bitch, that insomnia." — he chuckled, trying to sound easy.

Dropping his gaze for a moment, he nudged a small stone at his feet with the tip of his boot.

"Listen, I’ve been thinkin'…" — he started, eyes lifting to meet yours. — "What if we ran? Let's took the horses and just get the hell outta here."

He knew you’d always stood by Dutch — never once doubted it. But still, he hoped: hoped you saw it too. Saw it just as clear as he did. And that your eyes hadn’t yet clouded over with blind loyalty.