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The world was built to take from men like him.
Dutch stood beside the tracks with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, watching the train thunder past in a scream of smoke. Rich folk inside. Men in pressed suits reading newspapers. Women with gloved hands and gold at their throats. People who had never once wondered where their next meal would come from.
The train did not slow for towns like this. In fact it barely acknowledged them.
Neither did the world.
Dust kicked around his boots as the last carriage vanished down the line. Silence settled once again, broken only by the distant creak of a sign swinging outside the station and the muttering of drunk men somewhere down the road.
Dutch exhaled slowly.
He hated places like this. Little towns rotting under the weight of men who owned too much and men who had nothing at all. Store owners cheating desperate people for a few more cents. Sheriffs pretending law and morality were the same thing. Preachers standing on corners promising heaven to hungry folk who needed bread more than scripture.
Everybody wanted obedience. That was the trick of it. The whole damn country was built on it.
Work hard. Keep your head down. Know your place. Die poor.
Dutch laughed to himself. No. He would sooner put a bullet in his own skull than spend his life bent beneath another man’s boot.
A wagon rolled past him, wheels grinding through mud. The driver barely spared him a glance. Just another young drifter in a worn coat with worn eyes and no future worth speaking of.
That suited Dutch just fine.
People underestimated lonely men. They saw the empty pockets before they saw the mind. Saw the dust before they saw the ambition.
Dutch tilted his head toward the evening sky. The sunset spread gold across the horizon, bleeding through the smoke and grime of the town until even this miserable place looked almost beautiful.
Funny thing about America. It always looked prettier from a distance.
That was its greatest talent: Selling dreams. Land of opportunity. Land of freedom.
Freedom for who?
Certainly not the immigrants breaking their backs on railroads. Not the starving families packed into city alleys. Not the men shot dead for stealing food while bankers robbed whole towns and got invited to dinner afterward.
No. The country belonged to wolves pretending to be shepherds.
Dutch understood that better every year.
And maybe that should have made him bitter.
Instead, it made him angry.
Angry enough to believe the world could still be changed if the right man grabbed hold of it hard enough.
He did not fully know what that meant yet. Only that there had to be something more than this. More than factories swallowing men whole. More than graves with no names carved into them. More than living and dying forgotten.
Dutch wanted to matter. Not in the way politicians mattered. Not in the way rich men mattered.
Something larger.
Something people would remember.
A cold wind swept through town, tugging at his coat. Dutch started walking again with no real destination in mind. Just movement. Just forward.
The world was wide still. Wild in places. Untamed.
And somewhere out there, he was certain of it, there were others like him.
Men who looked at the world and saw the bars of a cage.
Men angry enough to tear it apart.
There was something standing in his way: hunger.
It sat inside him like a living thing, gnawing at the walls of his stomach, dull one moment and sharp the next. Dutch looked down at himself as he walked, taking in the state of his boots, the dirt ground into his ragged trousers, the threadbare coat hanging loose off his shoulders. He looked every inch what men already decided he was before he even opened his mouth.
Filthy and worthless.
Not worth the shit under their boots.
His pockets were empty enough to turn inside out without a single coin falling free. The last few months had been rough. Rougher than he cared to admit. Sleeping in alleys, stealing scraps where he could, talking smooth when smooth talking still worked. Sometimes it did. Sometimes a man only got a fist in the mouth for trying.
But Dutch had always been good at spotting opportunity.
That was the difference between him and every other starving bastard wandering these towns. Most men saw misery and laid down in it. Dutch saw possibility. All he needed was patience enough to wait for it to show itself.
And there it was.
He circled around the saloon slowly, pretending not to look too interested. The place buzzed with drunken laughter and piano music leaking out through the walls. Men stumbled in and out the front doors already half-dead to whiskey. Nobody paid attention to the alley.
On the third floor, one window stood cracked open.
Dutch paused beneath it, eyes narrowing.
Now that was careless.
He tilted his head upward, studying the building. Narrow ledges ran beneath each window. Not much room for footing, but enough. The brickwork jutted out in places too. Climbable if a man knew what he was doing.
Dutch smirked faintly. Well. He did.
He started slow, fingers digging into the mortar as he hauled himself upward. His stomach protested every movement, muscles sore from too many hungry nights, but once he got going his confidence returned surprisingly fast. He moved with the ease of a healthier man, boots scraping carefully against the wall.
By the second floor, his pulse had steadied.
By the third, he almost felt alive again.
He pulled himself onto the ledge outside the open window and listened.
Nothing. No voices. No footsteps. Lucky him.
Dutch carefully slid inside.
The room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke and cheap soap. Average-looking place. Small bed shoved against the wall, washbasin in the corner, worn rug on the floorboards. Nothing grand about it, but that was expected in a town like this. Men passing through. Railroad workers. Traveling salesmen. Drunks with enough money to rent a room for the night.
Dutch searched quickly.
Drawers. Under the mattress. Beside the bed.
Nothing. No food either.
“Ain’t that a damn shame,” he muttered under his breath.
A waste of energy then.
Dutch let out a long sigh and opened the cupboard more out of irritation than hope.
Then he stopped.
Now there was something interesting.
Clothes.
Not just clothes either. Fine ones.
A dark waistcoat with gold stitching. Crisp shirts folded neatly. A heavy coat made from quality wool. Expensive trousers. The sort of wardrobe worn by a man who stepped off trains with polished boots and expected people to move aside for him.
A man with money.
Dutch eagerly searched the room again, faster this time, hoping there might be a wallet hidden somewhere nearby. A stray coin. Anything.
Nothing. He groaned softly. “Men must be getting smarter.”
Now he had truly wasted his time. Still… His eyes drifted back toward the cupboard. Something tugged at him.
Dutch stepped closer and ran his fingers slowly over the fabric. Soft. Smooth. Silken in places. Real quality. Not the rough scratch of cheap cloth he’d worn most his life. This was the sort of material meant for important men. Men who got listened to. Men who walked into banks through the front door.
Maybe this wasn’t a complete waste after all.
Surely he could sell some of it for a few dollars.
Enough for food at least.
Dutch pulled the clothes from the cupboard, bundling them under one arm as he turned toward the window.
Then he passed the mirror.
He slowed. The reflection staring back at him looked thin and hard-eyed, hair unkempt beneath layers of dust and grime. A hungry stray pretending to be a man.
Dutch stared at himself a long moment.
Then, almost without thinking, he set the clothes down.
His fingers moved over the buttons of his ragged shirt. He peeled it off slowly, wincing slightly at the cold air against his skin. Ribs jutted out from under his skin. Bruises yellowed across his side from some fight he barely remembered.
He picked up one of the clean shirts. It was as white as fresh snow.
Dutch slipped it on carefully. The fabric settled against him like water.
For a moment he just stood there, feeling it.
Then came the waistcoat. The trousers after that. The coat last.
Piece by piece, the starving boy in the mirror disappeared.
Dutch stepped closer to the glass. And there he was. Not some alley rat.
Not some starving orphan scrambling through windows for scraps.
A gentleman.
The clothes fit surprisingly well, close enough to look natural. The coat broadened his shoulders. The waistcoat sharpened his frame. Even his posture changed without him noticing, spine straightening as though the clothes themselves demanded it.
Dutch lifted a hand and slicked back his hair.
The man in the reflection looked… important.
Respectable.
Like someone meant for more than gutters and empty pockets.
And the strange thing was, Dutch believed it almost instantly.
A slow smile spread across his face. “There you are,” he murmured gently to his reflection.
For the first time in a very long while, he thought maybe he was finally seeing himself properly.
Dutch carried the stolen clothes bundled tightly beneath his arm as he made his way out of town.
The sky had begun turning gold with late afternoon light, the sun hanging low enough to cast long shadows across the road. He kept his head down as he walked, boots kicking dust behind him. Nobody spared him more than a glance. Just another dirty drifter moving through.
Good.
The river sat a little ways outside town, shallow and slow-moving this time of year. Cottonwoods lined the banks, their branches whispering softly in the breeze. Dutch crouched near the edge and set the bundle carefully onto a dry patch of grass.
For a moment, he simply stared at the water.
His reflection stared back warped by the current. Mud-streaked face. Tangled hair. Hollow cheeks. Eyes too intense for a man his age.
A thief. A beggar.
The kind of person towns tolerated only until something went missing.
Dutch exhaled slowly and stripped off his filthy shirt.
The water was freezing when he stepped in.
“Shit—” he hissed through clenched teeth, sucking in a breath as the cold wrapped around his legs and climbed higher. But he kept going until he was knee-deep, then crouched down and splashed water over himself hard enough to sting.
Dirt rolled off him in muddy streaks.
He scrubbed at his arms first, then his face, his neck, under his fingernails. He dunked his head beneath the surface and came back up gasping, slicking wet hair away from his eyes.
Again.
Again.
Until the water around him stopped clouding brown.
Dutch sat back slightly, breathing hard. The river carried the grime downstream in twisting ribbons.
He looked cleaner already. Younger too, somehow.
Not soft. Never soft.
But less like an animal dragged through the dirt.
He climbed back onto shore dripping wet and grabbed the clothes carefully, almost reverently. The white shirt first. Then the trousers. The waistcoat. Finally the coat itself.
Every piece changed him further.
By the time he buttoned the cuffs, he hardly recognised the person standing there.
Dutch stared down at his old clothes lying abandoned in the grass.
They looked pathetic now. Small. Like proof of a life he suddenly refused to belong to anymore.
He nudged the pile lightly with his boot before stepping back toward the riverbank.
The water reflected him clearly now in the fading sunlight.
A proper young man stared back. Dutch tilted his chin slightly. Straightened his shoulders.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said aloud.
Too rough. Too street-born. He cleared his throat.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Better. Smoother this time.
Dutch adjusted his posture again, forcing tension from his shoulders. Wealthy men didn’t hunch and they certainly didn’t move like they expected to be hit.
He tried again. “How do you do?”
The words sounded strange in his mouth at first. Too polished.
But Dutch listened closely to himself, studying every syllable.
Again. “How do you do?”
Again.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
He gave a small nod afterward, practicing the movement.
Dutch crouched near the water, watching himself like he was studying another man entirely. “No rush now,” he murmured in a softer tone. “Speak like you got all the time in the world.”
He practiced smiling next. Not the acrid grin he used before fights or thefts.
Something easier. Charming.
The kind of smile people trusted.
Or wanted to trust.
Dutch stood there for nearly half an hour refining every little movement. The way he held his chin. The pace of his speech. Where to place his hands. How to look someone in the eye without seeming threatening.
By the end of it, the transformation felt almost frighteningly natural.
Like he’d been waiting for this all along.
The old clothes still sat near the grass behind him.
Dutch looked at them one final time.
Then he turned away.
He walked back toward town as the sun dipped lower behind the hills, polished boots crunching softly along the dirt road. His pace had changed now.
People noticed confidence before they noticed anything else.
Dutch knew that instinctively.
As the first buildings came back into view, he caught sight of a few townsfolk further ahead. A woman carrying groceries. Two men outside the general store. A deputy leaning lazily in a chair.
None of them looked twice at the starving thief from earlier.
Why would they?
That boy had disappeared down by the river.
And the young gentleman walking into town now looked like somebody destined for better things.
The change in people’s eyes was immediate.
It almost made him laugh.
A few hours ago they had looked straight through him, dismissing him as another starving drifter not worth noticing. Now heads turned as he passed. Not suspiciously either. Respectfully. Curious at worst.
Amazing what a clean collar could do.
Dutch kept his pace measured as he walked down the boardwalk. Not too fast. Men with money never hurried unless something had gone wrong. He kept his chin lifted slightly, expression calm.
Confidence.
That was all most people ever really believed in.
Outside the saloon, a pair of ranch hands argued drunkenly over cards while a businessman smoked beside the door. Middle-aged. Clean shave. Gold watch chain hanging from his vest.
Drunk enough to loosen judgment.
Perfect.
Dutch slowed beside him, offering a polite nod. “Evenin’.”
The man glanced over. His eyes flicked across Dutch’s clothes, assessing. Whatever he saw seemed satisfactory enough because his expression softened immediately.
“Evenin’,” the man replied.
Dutch smiled easily. “Fine establishment you got here.”
The man chuckled. “Wish I owned it.”
“Ah.” Dutch dipped his head apologetically. “My mistake.”
The businessman waved it off. “No offense taken.”
Dutch lingered just enough to seem natural. Not desperate. Never desperate.
“I’m new through town,” he said after a moment. “Supposed to be meeting associates here, though I fear I’ve arrived somewhat ahead of schedule.”
The lie came smooth as silk.
The man nodded sympathetically already. “Travelin’ business?”
“You could say that.” Dutch gave a faint smile. “Investment opportunities. Rail expansion mostly.”
He had no idea what that actually meant, but it sounded important.
Important was enough.
The businessman straightened slightly. “Railroad, huh?”
Dutch shrugged modestly like it bored him. “Adjacent to it.”
That did the trick.
People always filled silence with their own assumptions, and most assumed upward.
The man extended a hand. “Walter Finch.”
Dutch took it smoothly. “Dieter Vanderbilt.”
“Well, Mister Vanderbilt,” Finch said warmly, “you picked a poor town for investments.”
Dutch laughed softly. “Oh, I’ve seen poorer.”
That earned another chuckle.
Dutch could practically feel the shift happening now. Finch wanted his approval. Wanted to impress him. All because Dutch looked the part and spoke like he belonged somewhere important.
It was almost disappointingly easy.
A waitress emerged from the saloon carrying drinks, and Finch grabbed one off her tray before turning back toward Dutch.
“You had supper yet?”
Dutch paused just long enough. “Not yet, no.”
“Well hell, let me buy you a drink at least.”
There it was.
Dutch smiled politely, like he was doing the man a favour by accepting. “That’s very generous.”
Inside the saloon, the warmth hit him immediately alongside cigar smoke and piano music. Dutch kept his composure despite the smell of actual food making his stomach twist painfully.
Do not look hungry.
Hungry men frightened people.
Confident men charmed them.
Finch ordered whiskey for both of them and began rambling almost instantly about land, cattle, local politics. Dutch listened closely, nodding in the right places, speaking only when useful. Men loved good listeners almost as much as they loved hearing themselves talk.
Especially rich men.
By the second drink, Finch was fully relaxed.
By the third, he was bragging.
“My brother runs freight down south,” Finch slurred slightly. “Makes damn near triple what I do.”
Dutch swirled his whiskey thoughtfully. “Transportation is the future.”
“Exactly!” Finch slapped the table hard enough to spill liquor. “You understand.”
Dutch leaned back slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Truthfully, Mister Finch… the reason I’m here is because my associates were considering expanding operations through towns exactly like this one.”
Finch blinked. “This town?”
“Potentially.”
The man practically sat up straighter.
Dutch hid a smile behind his glass. Hooked him. “But…” Dutch sighed softly, letting disappointment creep into his voice. “I fear I may have run into an unfortunate complication.”
Finch frowned. “What sort?”
Dutch hesitated just enough to seem reluctant. “My luggage was stolen off the coach line yesterday.” He gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Quite humiliating honestly. Left me temporarily separated from my funds.”
Finch cursed sympathetically. “Hell of a thing.”
“Mm.” Dutch stared into his drink. “Normally it wouldn’t matter much, but until my associates arrive tomorrow…” He trailed off carefully.
Silence. People hated unfinished sentences.
Finch shifted awkwardly. “How short are you?”
Dutch looked up like the question embarrassed him. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose.”
“Nonsense.”
Dutch waited one more beat. Then quietly: “Truthfully? About twenty dollars.”
Finch winced.
Dutch already knew what he was thinking. Twenty was too much.
Dutch immediately waved a dismissive hand. “Though I’m sure I can sort it myself.”
Now Finch felt guilty. Perfect.
“Well…” Finch rubbed his jaw. “I ain’t exactly flush myself, but…” He reached slowly into his coat pocket.
Dutch kept his expression neutral despite the pulse suddenly hammering in his chest.
Finch pulled out several bills. “Could spare ten.”
Dutch stared at the money as though reluctant.
Inside, he was brimming.
Ten dollars.
Ten.
That was more money than he’d seen in months.
“You are remarkably kind,” Dutch said softly.
And the terrifying thing was, for just a second, Finch actually looked proud of himself.
Dutch accepted the money carefully, folding it into his pocket with dignity instead of desperation.
Then he smiled warmly. “I assure you, Mister Finch… one day your generosity will be repaid.”
Dutch walked out of the saloon feeling ten feet tall.
Ten dollars.
The bills sat folded neatly inside his coat pocket, and every few steps he found himself checking to make sure they were still there. Real money. Honest-to-God money. Not stolen from a till in loose coins. Not scraps. Enough to eat properly. Enough to breathe for a little while.
The town suddenly looked different.
Dutch stepped into the general store first and nearly lost his mind at the smell alone. Fresh bread. Salted meat. Cheese. Coffee. Apples stacked in barrels near the counter.
For a second he just stood there staring.
The shopkeeper eyed him politely. “Can I help you, sir?”
Sir.
Dutch straightened slightly at the word. “Yes,” he said smoothly. “I believe you can.”
By the time he left, his arms were loaded down with food wrapped in brown paper and cloth. Bread still warm from baking. Smoked sausage. Cheese. Apples. Biscuits. A small jar of preserves he absolutely did not need but bought anyway simply because he could.
Dutch headed away from the busiest parts of town until the noise of the saloon and wagons faded behind him. He found a pretty spot near the edge of town beneath a tree overlooking the river.
Only then did he finally sit.
For a moment he simply stared at the food spread out before him.
Enough to make his stomach ache just looking at it.
Dutch grabbed the bread first, tearing into it while it was still warm. He barely chewed the first few bites. Then the sausage. Cheese after that. The food hit his stomach almost painfully after so long without enough of it.
But God—
It tasted good. He let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, leaning back against the tree trunk with bread still in one hand. Crumbs scattered across his coat but he hardly cared.
For the first time in months, he wasn’t thinking about survival.
The river rolled softly nearby while dusk settled over the land in shades of blue and gold.
Dutch reached for an apple when movement caught his eye. Someone darting toward the food. His hand snapped out instantly, grabbing a wrist before the woman could snatch the loaf beside him.
“Hey—” The word came vicious.
The woman jerked violently in his grip, eyes blown wide with panic. Thin. Filthy. Older than him by several years maybe, though hunger made age hard to tell. Her clothes hung loose from her frame and her face looked hollow beneath tangled dark hair.
“Let go,” she hissed.
Dutch tightened his grip automatically. “That’s mine.” He’d earned this. Lied for it. Climbed for it. Starved for it. Nobody was taking it from him.
The woman glared at him like a cornered animal.
Then Dutch saw it.
The hunger. Not ordinary hunger either. A desperate hunger.
The kind that hollowed people out from the inside until food became the only thing left in the world.
Dutch knew that look. Hell, he’d seen it in the mirror this morning.
Something shifted in his expression.
The woman noticed immediately, confusion flickering across her face.
Then Dutch heard another sound. Small movement behind the nearby bushes. His eyes narrowed. A child peeked out from behind the brush.
Little girl. Maybe five or six. Too skinny. Huge frightened eyes staring directly at the food.
The woman immediately tried pulling free again. “Don’t—”
Dutch looked between them. Ah. Not stealing for herself. For the kid. His grip loosened slowly. The woman stumbled back a step, still tense like she expected him to start shouting any second.
Dutch looked down at the food spread around him.
Enough for three people easily.
More than enough.
He exhaled through his nose. Then pushed the loaf of bread toward her.
The woman blinked. “What?”
“Sit down,” Dutch muttered.
Suspicion immediately flooded her face. “Why?”
“Because if you keep starin’ at me like that, I’m liable to lose my appetite.”
She hesitated. The little girl behind the bushes stared at the bread like it might disappear if she blinked.
Dutch sighed dramatically. “Christ alive, woman, I ain’t gonna poison you.”
Slowly, cautiously, she stepped forward.
The child followed a second later, hiding partly behind her leg.
Dutch tore off another piece of bread and handed it toward the girl first.
She looked up at the woman for permission before taking it carefully with both hands. Then she devoured it.
The woman sat across from him warily while the girl kept eating like she feared someone might take it away.
Dutch quietly slid over the cheese and sausage too.
The woman stared at him. “You serious?”
Dutch shrugged, trying to look unaffected. “Can only eat so much.” It was a lie. He could have eaten every scrap himself.
The woman slowly picked up the food, still looking confused. “Why help us?”
Dutch leaned back against the tree again, staring out toward the river.
For a long moment he didn’t answer. Then quietly: “Because I know what it’s like.”
The woman fell silent after that.
The three of them ate together in the growing dark without another word for a while. Just the sound of the river, crickets starting up nearby, and the frantic little bites of a starving child finally getting something warm in her stomach.
Dutch watched the girl from the corner of his eye as she ate.
And somewhere deep down, something painfully human crawled out in his chest.
The next morning, Dutch woke with a full stomach and dangerous confidence.
That was the problem with success. It made a man feel untouchable.
The town no longer seemed threatening as he walked through it.
People looked at him differently now.
And Dutch liked it. Maybe too much.
He spent the morning wandering through town, listening more than speaking. Picking apart conversations. Railroad workers near the station. Ranchers buying supplies. A wealthy cattleman arguing prices outside the hotel.
Opportunity was everywhere once a man knew where to look.
By noon, Dutch had his target.
An older man sat alone outside the barber shop reading a newspaper. Expensive suit. Silver pocket watch. Wedding ring. Fat wallet shape pressing clearly against the inside of his coat.
Traveling businessman most likely. Dutch approached calmly. “Afternoon, sir.”
The man looked up briefly. “Mm.”
Dutch smiled pleasantly. “Terribly sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you might help me settle a disagreement.”
Already the man looked annoyed. Wrong start. Dutch ignored the warning signs.
“My associate and I seem unable to agree on whether this town was founded in sixty-eight or sixty-nine—”
“Don’t care,” the man muttered.
Dutch blinked once. Usually people played along at least a little. Still, he recovered quickly. “Of course. My apologies.”
He started to step away.
Then the man’s eyes narrowed suddenly. The businessman lowered the newspaper slowly. “Wait a damn minute.”
Dutch’s stomach tightened.
“You were in the saloon last night.”
Dutch smiled easily. “I visit many saloons.”
“No.” The man stood. “You were with Walter Finch.”
Ah. Problem?
“Heard you talking about railroad investments.” The man’s expression darkened. “Funny thing is… I work for the railroad.”
Dutch stayed perfectly still. “And there ain’t no Dieter Vanderbilt on any company payroll I ever seen.”
The air between them shifted.
Dutch gave a soft laugh. “Well now, I fear there’s been some misunderstanding—”
“You conned him.”
Several people nearby had started glancing over now. Dutch noticed every single one.
The businessman stepped closer. “How much’d you take?”
“Sir—”
“How much?”
Dutch’s mind raced for an exit. Then the man grabbed his coat. Shit. “You little thieving bastard.”
Dutch reacted instantly, shoving him backward. The man stumbled but recovered fast, face going red with fury. “You’re dead,” he snarled.
And suddenly there was a revolver in his hand.
Time slowed.
People screamed nearby. Someone shouted. Chairs scraped violently across wood.
Dutch moved before the gun fully raised. The first shot cracked past him close enough for him to feel the air split beside his face.
Dutch bolted. Boots thundered against the boardwalk as he sprinted down the street. Another shot rang out behind him, splintering wood near his shoulder.
“Stop him!”
Dutch turned sharply into an alley, breath hammering now. No. No. No.
He could hear the man following, heavier footsteps pounding after him. “Little shit!”
Dutch vaulted over crates, nearly slipping in mud before catching himself against a wall. Another gunshot. Too close.
The bullet lodged into brick inches from his head. Crazy fucking bastard.
The alley dead-ended ahead. Dutch stopped hard.
Shit. He spun around just as the businessman entered the alley breathing heavily, revolver shaking slightly in his grip.
No crowd now. No witnesses.
Only the two of them.
The man leveled the gun directly at Dutch’s chest. “You should’ve picked someone dumber to rob.”
Dutch slowly raised his hands. “Now hold on—”
“You think you can humiliate me?” the man snapped. “Make me look like a fool?”
Dutch’s eyes flicked quickly around the alley. Bottle. Loose brick. Broken crate. Too far.
“I can repay—”
“Shut up.”
The man stepped closer. Bad move.
Dutch saw the hesitation in his grip immediately. Rich men liked guns more than they liked using them. Still dangerous though. Still deadly.
The revolver wavered slightly.
Dutch moved. He threw himself forward before the man could react, grabbing the gun hand with both hands. The shot exploded deafeningly between them.
Pain burst through Dutch’s ears.
The two crashed hard against the wall. The businessman cursed wildly, trying to wrench the revolver free, but Dutch was faster.
Dutch drove his elbow into the man’s throat. The businessman gagged violently.
The gun slipped. Dutch grabbed it.
The man lunged desperately for him—
And Dutch fired.
Once.
The alley went silent. The businessman staggered backward. For a second he just stood there looking confused. Then blood spread slowly across his shirt.
Dutch stared. The man collapsed hard into the dirt.
Dutch’s breathing turned ragged instantly. The revolver felt impossibly heavy in his hand. He’d been in fights before. Plenty of them. Seen men beaten bloody. Seen death from a distance.
But this—
This was different. The businessman’s eyes remained open, staring at nothing.
Dutch swallowed hard. “Oh… hell.”
His voice came out barely above a whisper. For one terrible moment he thought he might throw up. Then voices echoed faintly from the street nearby.
Dutch snapped back to himself.
Move. MOVE.
His hands shook as he wiped the revolver clean against the dead man’s coat and dropped it beside the body. He backed away quickly, pulse roaring in his ears.
Then he turned and ran.
Dutch didn’t stop running until the town had vanished behind him completely.
Only then did he finally stagger down toward the riverbank, boots slipping in mud as exhaustion caught up with him all at once. His lungs burned. His pulse pounded painfully in his throat. Every sound behind him made his nerves jump.
They’ll hang you for this.
Dutch dropped hard to his knees beside the river and braced himself against the bank, breathing raggedly. Cold water rushed past in the dark. Then he saw the blood.
A streak across his cuff. More smeared near his jawline. Dutch stared at it.
For a moment he couldn’t quite connect it properly in his head. Blood belonged to other people. To bar fights. To butcher shops. To men sprawled in the dirt after somebody else pulled the trigger.
Not him. Not really.
Dutch plunged his hands into the water and scrubbed at the stains hard enough to hurt. Freezing water splashed over his skin and sleeves. He rubbed at his face next, breathing harder as reddish streaks dripped into the river.
The current swallowed them instantly. Thin ribbons of red unravelling into nothing.
Dutch froze. Yesterday he’d stood at this exact river washing dirt from his skin, watching muddy water drift away while he transformed himself into somebody better.
Now the river was carrying away blood instead. He leaned back slightly and stared down at his reflection.
The expensive clothes still looked good on him despite everything. The coat sharpened his shoulders. The white shirt made him look educated. Civilized.
Important.
But his eyes ruined it. Too wild now. Too frightened.
Dutch swallowed hard. “You ain’t filth,” he muttered to himself.
The words sounded uncertain. Like he was testing them.
He looked away from the reflection almost immediately. Because another voice answered back inside his head anyway.
A thief. A liar. A killer now too.
Dutch clenched his jaw. “No,” he said more firmly this time. He wasn’t like the men who beat starving boys bloody in alleys for sport. Wasn’t like drunks who shot people over bruised pride. The businessman had drawn first. Had hunted him down.
Dutch had survived. That was different.
It had to be different. People like him didn’t get choices the way rich men did. Nobody handed Dutch opportunities. Nobody fed him when he was starving. Nobody cared whether he lived or died unless he made himself matter.
Men like Walter Finch could afford honesty.
Dutch couldn’t. His gaze drifted back toward the river.
The blood had vanished completely now. Gone like it had never existed. Maybe that was what survival really was.
A refusal to drown no matter how the world shoved you under the water.
Dutch sat there silently for a long while, listening to the current move around rocks. He thought about the businessman’s face after the shot. The confusion more than the anger. As if men like him truly believed death only happened to other people.
Dutch rubbed his damp hands together slowly. He should feel guiltier than this.
That realisation unsettled him more than the killing itself.
“You did what you had to,” he muttered again. Necessary. That sounded cleaner. Respectable even.
Dutch straightened slightly, trying to steady his thoughts before they spiraled somewhere dangerous. He was not gutter trash. Not some worthless animal born to rot in alleys until somebody put a bullet in him.
He refused that. The world looked at hungry people and saw failure. Weakness. Dirt.
But Dutch knew better. Hungry people learned things comfortable men never did. They learned how to read a room in seconds. How to survive. How to become exactly what other people wanted to see.
Yesterday one set of clothes had changed everything about how the town treated him.
That meant respect itself was a performance. A trick.
And Dutch was beginning to understand how to play it better than most. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Maybe that was what separated him from ordinary thieves. He didn’t just want money. He wanted more than that. He wanted people to look at him and see someone important. Someone untouchable. A man above all the filth he came from.
Because if he could become that—
Then maybe all the hunger and humiliation meant something.
Maybe he wasn’t born low after all.
Maybe the world had simply failed to recognise him yet.
Dutch exhaled slowly and rose to his feet. The town behind him was finished now. Much too dangerous after tonight. Too many eyes. Too many questions once the body got found.
Small towns were traps anyway. Tiny cages full of suspicious little men clinging to scraps of power. No. He needed someplace bigger.
Someplace where a clever man could disappear into the crowd and become whoever he wanted.
Chicago.
He’d heard stories. Wealth beyond imagining beside poverty so deep nobody noticed another starving boy in the streets.
Perfect. A city that large wouldn’t care where he came from. Only what he could become.
Dutch gave the river one last look. The blood was gone.
Only his reflection remained.
