The ambush wasn't over.
The forest echoed with the last dregs of violence—cries, cracking branches, and the thudding of bodies against earth.
Jake emerged from behind a tree, dirt-smeared, wide-eyed, clutching a rusty knife and a look that could cut through iron. The last few attackers darted like shadows, thinking they had the upper hand.
Big mistake.
One lunged at him—Jake didn't hesitate. He sidestepped with eerie calm, drove the knife into the bastard's temple with a sickening crunch, yanked it out, and immediately plunged it into another's throat, dragging it sideways like he was gutting a fish.
Blood sprayed like rain.
"FUCK. OFF!" Jake barked, eyes wild.
Arthur and John both froze mid-reload.
The guy who'd been whining about his hat? The guy who made dick jokes and cursed at God for delaying GTA VI? He was gone.
What stood in his place was a goddamn warhound.
Another attacker came from the side—Jake twisted, drew Arthur's old revolver from his belt (no one saw him take it), and fired point blank into the guy's chest. The sound echoed like thunder in a canyon.
BLAM.
One more charged—Jake didn't even blink. He stepped forward, jammed the barrel into the man's stomach, and emptied two more shots, his teeth gritted, eyes hollow.
John lowered his gun slowly. "What the hell… was that?"
Arthur said nothing. He just watched.
Jake, breathing hard, stood over the corpses. His new clothes were soaked in blood. His hand trembled—but his face didn't show fear.
Just… detachment.
Arthur stepped forward. "Jake?"
Jake looked over his shoulder, blank-eyed.
Then blinked.
As if waking up.
"…Shit," he mumbled. "Sorry. Kinda blacked out there."
John looked around. "You call that blacking out?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
Jake slowly knelt beside one of the bodies, pulling a small feathered charm from the corpse's belt. He examined it. Tossed it away. "Army," he muttered.
John narrowed his eyes. "Army?"
"Yeah. U.S. Military. Did a few years, nothing major. Just your average soul-crushing, bullet-dodging, emotionally-scarring tour in hell."
Arthur squinted. "What the hell's the U.S. Army doing training clowns like you?"
Jake chuckled darkly. "Hey, I was funny after the PTSD. Before that I was just 'Private Jacobs, sir.' Real charming guy."
Arthur gestured for them to walk. "We need to move. This place ain't safe."
Jake nodded.
They started toward the horses—stepping over bodies.
Jake stumbled a bit, his foot crunching leaves.
John caught his arm. "You alright?"
Jake pulled his arm away. "I'm fine."
Arthur, still watching him, spoke up. "You ever… kill like that before?"
Jake didn't look at him. "Too many times."
They reached the horses.
Arthur climbed up. "You wanna talk about it?"
Jake smirked bitterly. "Do I look like a guy who talks about shit?"
John scoffed. "No. You look like a guy who needs a fuckin' drink and a priest."
Jake mounted behind Arthur. "Or a therapist. But hey—1899, right? Closest thing I got is a bottle of whiskey and a bar fight."
Arthur glanced back at him. "You sure you're not just crazy?"
Jake grinned again—only this time, there was no humor in it.
"Oh, I'm definitely crazy. But the scary part? I like it when it gets violent."