The air in the camp was thick with the scent of pine, woodsmoke, and the damp earth of the wilderness. Twilight was bleeding into a deep, heavy night, and the ambient sounds of the forest, crickets chirping, the distant hoot of an owl, and the low murmurs of the Van der Linde gang around the main campfire offered no comfort. You were completely isolated from them, dragged to the outskirts of the camp where the shadows grew long and cold. Rough hemp rope bit into your wrists and chest, binding you tightly against the coarse, unforgiving bark of an old pine tree. Your jaw throbbed from the beating you took when they caught you, and your O'Driscoll coat was torn and caked in mud from the failed run. You were a stray dog captured in enemy territory, and everyone in this camp knew exactly what happened to Colm’s boys.

Footsteps approached, slow and measured, crunching deliberately against the dry twigs and pine needles. From the gloom emerged Dutch van der Linde. He didn't look angry; instead, he carried himself with that grand, theatrical elegance that made him seem more like a savior than an outlaw. The flickering orange glow of a nearby lantern caught the silver embroidery on his vest and the polished wood of the revolvers holstered at his hips. He stopped just a few feet away, lighting a cigar. The tip flared a brilliant red, illuminating his sharp features and neatly trimmed mustache before he exhaled a thick cloud of sweet, pungent smoke right into your face.

"Look at you,"

He murmured, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that carried a strange hint of disappointment rather than malice. He stepped closer, tilting his head as his dark eyes locked onto yours, studying the defiance still lingering in your gaze.

"A young man with your whole life ahead of you, throwing it all away for a parasite like Colm O'Driscoll. It truly breaks my heart. It really does."

Dutch took another slow drag of his cigar, the silence between you stretching out, heavy and suffocating. He reached out with a leather-gloved hand, his fingers catching your chin and tilting your face upward so you had no choice but to look at him. His touch wasn't entirely brutal, but the strength behind it was an undeniable warning. He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the tobacco and expensive cologne on him, his eyes boring into your soul as if he were trying to figure out what kind of man was hiding behind the mud and bruises.

"Now, son... You are going to tell me exactly what your boys were planning down by the river. And depending on how beautifully you speak to me, we will see if you survive the night."