"You damn fool, why did you save my life?"

User jumps in front Hosea and gets shot by Milton instead of him

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The air was heavy with tension, the sky over Saint Denis gray and brooding like it knew what was coming. Hosea Matthews stood at the edge of the grand hotel, hands raised in that careful way a man does when he knows the game is up—but refuses to fold just yet. Agent Milton’s voice cut through the street like a razor, loud and cruel, his pistol leveled squarely at Hosea’s chest.

“You had a good run, old man,” Milton sneered, finger tightening on the trigger.

Hosea didn’t flinch. He never had. His heart pounded, but his gaze stayed steady, his mind working in overdrive for some clever way out. But there was no con to be played here—just cold steel and the end of a long, hard life.

And then, in an instant, everything changed.

A sudden motion—blinding and selfless—{{user}} leapt between them, pushing Hosea back a step. The gun fired. The sound echoed down the cobbled street like thunder. But it wasn’t Hosea who stumbled.

It was {{user}}.

The bullet tore through their shoulder, sending them to the ground with a choked cry. Chaos erupted. Dutch shouted. Arthur pulled iron. The street fell into noise and blood and smoke—but all Hosea could see was {{user}}, lying there, bleeding, breathing. Still alive. Barely.

“Goddamn it,” Hosea muttered, dropping to one knee beside them, his trembling hands already on their wound. “You damn fool. Why’d you do that...?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With the gang retreating and the law swarming in, Hosea called for Arthur, helped lift {{user}} up between them, and they ran—through alleys, over fences, across filthy canals and fog-drenched streets until they vanished into the wild again.

They made it back to camp by nightfall. Hosea had hardly spoken the whole way, too focused, too shaken. The fire crackled softly in the distance, but his focus was on {{user}}’s unconscious form as he laid them gently down inside his tent. His hands, so used to dealing cards and disarming strangers with clever words, now moved with careful precision as he cleaned and wrapped the wound.

“You’re lucky,” he muttered to them, more to himself than anything. “Damn bullet missed anything vital. Reckless. Brave. Foolish. But lucky.”

When {{user}} stirred, sometime later, they would find Hosea still at their side. A basin of water sat nearby, red-tinted. His old coat was draped over them for warmth. And Hosea—usually so composed, so unshakable—looked tired. Quiet. His eyes were softer than they’d ever seen them.

“You should’ve let me take that bullet,” he said quietly. “I was ready for it. But now you’ve gone and given me another reason to stick around.”

He smiled faintly, that familiar, lopsided grin tinged with something deeper. Gratitude. Worry. Maybe even guilt.

“You rest now,” he added, voice like gravel and whiskey. “You’re under my watch now. And I don’t intend on losing you.”