Jake took a slow sip of whiskey, looked Arthur and John dead in the eyes, and leaned forward like a drunk man about to reveal national secrets.
"Alright, saddle up, boys. Lemme tell you a tale. A tale of snow, wolves, freezing nipples, and Dutch Van 'I-have-a-plan' der Linde."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You gonna explain how you know all that?"
Jake snapped his fingers. "Patience, cowboy. I'm about to give you more spoilers than a Marvel trailer. Let's go back..."
He pointed a dramatic finger to the ceiling.
"...to Chapter 1. Colter. Snow. Cold as Satan's nipples. You boys were trapped after Blackwater went belly-up. Supplies were running out. Spirits were down. And you, Arthur, had to go out with Dutch and Micah to look for help."
Arthur squinted. "You weren't there."
"Exactly!" Jake shouted, slapping the table. "Yet here I am, knowing all of it. You found a dead guy in a wagon. Then you rescued some poor girl—Sadie!—whose husband was already deader than disco. Micah wanted to loot and leave, but Dutch, being Dutch, wanted to help."
Arthur and John exchanged glances.
Jake continued, "Then came the search party. You, Javier, and Dutch went looking for John."
John's eyebrows raised.
"You'd gone out earlier, didn't come back, and they were all like, 'Oh no, our plot device is missing!' So boom! Arthur and Javier head out into the blizzard. And then—bam! Wolves. Gnarly, bitey bastards. And you, Arthur, beat the shit outta them with your gun's butt and probably some casual cursing."
Arthur muttered, "That... happened."
Jake pointed a finger gun. "Bang. Rescued John, half-dead, dragging him through the snow while he whined like a busted accordion. No offense."
John snorted. "None taken. Sounds about right."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You still haven't explained how you know."
Jake waved his hand. "Bro, I played your life like a Netflix binge. You're all code in my timeline. But also so real. And the acting? Oscar-worthy. If anyone deserves an award, it's you, Arthur. Except, spoiler alert—"
Arthur raised a finger. "Before you spoil, tell me something. That disease... you mentioned earlier. TB?"
Jake's smirk faltered a bit. He looked at Arthur, then tapped the side of his glass.
"Yeah," he said. "You get it later. Chapter 2-3, I think. Strauss sends you to collect a debt from a guy named Thomas Downes. Sickly dude. He coughs blood on you. And boom. That's it. No dramatic music. No slow-mo. Just... doomed."
Arthur's face tightened.
"You're lying," John said, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
"I wish I was," Jake replied, quieter now. "But you... you try to redeem yourself. Help people. Free slaves. Give away your money. And depending on your choices—well, you either die in peace, or Micah stabs you in the back."
Arthur's jaw clenched. "Micah..."
"Yeah. The rat bastard," Jake growled. "Spoiler: he's the reason Dutch loses his mind. Micah whispers poison in his ear all game long, and Dutch just drinks it like whiskey."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Jake slammed his glass down and forced a smile. "Anyway! Where were we? Right. After you rescue John, you guys rob a train. Leviticus Cornwall's train. Big mistake."
Arthur exhaled. "That actually happened. All of that."
Jake winked. "Told ya. Now buckle up, boys. We're just getting started. This story's got trains, betrayals, pinkertons, shootouts, betrayals, tuberculosis, betrayals—did I mention betrayals?"
"You did," John said dryly.
Jake grinned. "Good. Because the next chapter? It's Valentine, baby. The town of mud, bar fights, and more horse testicle animations than anyone asked for."