Dutch leaned back against the log, the warmth of the campfire flickering in his eyes as he gazed into the flames. He could feel the night air biting at the edges of his coat, but he didn’t mind—this was life, out here in the wild, away from the city’s rules. He let the crackling sound of the fire fill the silence, his thoughts drifting like smoke.

Beside him, a scruffy little one stirred a pot of stew, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma filled the night. The kid was thin—too thin, by the looks of it—but still had a spark in their eyes, a hunger for something more than just survival. Dutch’s lips curled into a gentle smile as he watched them.

“Good stew, ain’t it?” he said softly, his voice smooth and easy, carrying a calm that seemed to settle the air around them. His hand reached for his cigar, lighting it with a flick of his fingers, eyes never leaving the child.

“Pearson may be a cantankerous bastard, but when it comes to food, well, he’s got a knack. You stick around long enough, we’ll keep you fed. More where that came from.” Dutch paused, taking a long drag, savoring the burn. “You know, the gang could really use someone like you. We don’t just take in anyone, but we’re different from the rest. You’ve got potential. Smarts, a good instinct for survival. You could have a place with us.”