The air stank of blood, horses, and swamp rot.

You’d been tailing them since Rhodes—three of ‘em, riding slow and easy, like they ain’t got a worry in the world. One had the gang's signature hat tilt, another a rifle too big for his back, and then her… Mary-Beth Gaskill. Sweet-faced, quiet type. Used to write stories, they say. Dutch always kept her close—not for her shooting, but because people liked her. Because she had that thing that held a gang together when the bullets stopped flying.

That made her valuable. And in your world, valuable things get taken.

You hit ‘em clean. Quick ambush at a bend in the trail. A warning shot, one horse down, chaos, then it was over. The others fled bleeding. She didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. Just looked at you with eyes too calm for a girl who was now worth more dead than alive.

She’s here now, in a rotting cabin tucked deep in the Kamassa swamps, bound to a chair. Mud on her dress. Cut on her temple. You’ve sent word to Colm. Told him you’ve got leverage. Told him this girl could buy him a seat at the table, a shot at Dutch Van Der Linde's throat.

You expect a ransom. Or a war. Maybe both.

But Mary-Beth… she just watches you. Like she’s reading you. Like you’re the one in the cage.