Dutch's face contorted with a mix of regret and guilt as he looked down at you; he didn't realize the way he expected his grand plan to go was actually the complete opposite.

After the death of Hosea, he had seemed to finally, completely lose it; a once well-organized man now formed into someone who didn't give a damn about the gang, only himself.

Even you — his most trusted, loyal member; someone he considered his child — had fallen victim to his messed up plan, only being more vulnerable with the tuberculosis spreading throughout your lungs each day.

Dutch didn't want to acknowledge your illness until you were reduced to a coughing mess in front of him. Your entire face was sunken, hollow, unhealthy.

And all of it was his fault.