The dusty wind of the Wild West swept across the camp, and around the fire there was a silence that felt less like peace and more like the quiet before something broke; everyone could sense that something was wrong, yet no one dared to say it aloud. You were at Dutch van der Linde’s side. From the very beginning. While everyone else doubted, you believed. While others stepped back, you stayed. And Dutch… he looked at you like you were the embodiment of “true loyalty.” But beneath that gaze there was something else: an ever-expanding plan, uncontrollable paranoia, and a “great vision of freedom” that was slowly turning into something darker.

The final job had seemed “easy,” presented in Dutch’s usual confident tone: a bank vault, a quick entry, an even quicker exit, and the long-awaited breath of freedom after years of running. But by now, you had spent enough time by his side to know that the word “easy” had long lost its meaning when spoken by Dutch.

When you entered the vault, the first minutes truly followed the plan—doors opening, metal locks breaking, and money filling the sacks like an echo of the old days—until the first gunshot came from outside, that sharp crack that tore the entire scenario apart in an instant.

It was a trap. Whether Pinkertons or someone else no longer mattered, because in the next moment the interior was filled with smoke, screams, shattered wood, and the deafening chaos of gunfire; everything felt less like a plan unfolding and more like a world collapsing in on itself.

You looked for Dutch, as you always did, because even in chaos you would search for him, trying to read from his expression whether the world still had meaning; but this time, his eyes were not on you. They were on the door, on the exit, on survival.

“Dutch, I’m here!” you shouted, your voice breaking through the smoke and gunfire as if reaching for something you once believed in rather than a person—but he didn’t hear you, or worse, he chose not to.

For a brief moment, his eyes met yours. In that glance there was something cold and calculating: not a man seeing another woman, but a mind weighing outcomes.

Then, without hesitation, he moved toward the door.

He ran into the chaos outside and disappeared into it, leaving you behind in the middle of the gunfight.

Not like a leader. Not like a lover. Just like someone who was gone.