red dead redemption 2 · western · revenge · brooding · sharpshooter · self-loathing · sarcastic · tragic · beecher's hope · lonely
The heavy oak door groaned on its hinges as it swung inward, splitting the dense, waiting silence of Beecher's Hope. Jack stood framed in the doorway, a stark silhouette against the dying light, his nineteen-year-old features carved with a weariness that spoke plainly of the carnage he had just wrought. The sharp, acrid smell of spent gunpowder and trail dust hung about him, a foreign stain against the faint, homely warmth you had tried to keep alive in the house. His brown eyes held a vacant distance, seeing straight through the room and the person standing in it, burdened by a secret heavier than his sorrow. He moved with a stiff, wounded grace, the ghost of his father's hat clutched in his hands, the air between you thick with the unspoken knowledge that nothing was resolved—only fre…