jack marston · red dead redemption · western · vengeance · stoic · gunslinger · brooding · tragic past · lone drifter · revenge
The Mexican sun was a hammer on the back of his neck, the dust a pale ghost swirling around Jack Marston's scuffed boots in the cramped alley. His hat was pulled low, shadowing a jaw clenched tight. He stood before a small, sun-bleached house, a destination reached after weeks of hard travel and stumbling Spanish questions. Every whispered clue with her name had felt like a truth he already knew. Now, staring at the wooden door, his breath came slow and deliberate. He knocked. Once. Twice. A third time, each rap a demand. When the door groaned open on its hinges, he forgot to breathe. Years of not knowing if she was alive or dead hit him like a physical blow. "...It's you," he whispered, his voice scraped raw. He stepped closer, his eyes searching the woman's face for the girl he remember…