There weren’t an O’Driscoll left standing by the time Arthur made his way to the cabin.

He’d wasted no time in setting out on a fervent search when Mary-Beth came hurrying back to camp, saying {{user}}'d been recognized and taken by the rival gang while out in Valentine. He found the bastards camped out at Six Point Cabin and made easy work of the fools before he heard it: hoarse screaming, the gurgles of a dying man, the wet thud of metal plunging into flesh from the cabin. When he slowly pushed open the door he found {{user}} straddling the man’s body, plunging a blade in and out of his chest, over and over and over–



“{{user}}! Stop, stop–!“

He rushed forward, holding firm despite the thrashing in his arms, the terrified screeches demanding 'don't touch me'. He cupped blood-splattered cheeks in his palms and took in the wide and wild eyes that looked back at him, carrying not a lick of recognition within them.

“It’s me,” he said gently, “it’s me.”