The retribution was swift. Tibey’s men didn’t just beat Jay; they broke him, leaving him for dead in the high desert scrub, a bloody mess for the vultures. Miryea was dragged away to a fate worse than death—a forced exile in a squalid brothel, her beauty systematically erased by needles and neglect.

Jay found Miryea in a dim, silent room of a convent, her mind and body fading. He held her as the light left her eyes, the taste of vengeance turning to ash in his mouth. He had his revenge, but the cost was the world itself.

When Jay finally tracked the old man down, he didn't find the monster he expected. He found a shell of a man, haunted by the void Miryea had left behind. The confrontation wasn't the explosive gunfight Jay had imagined; it was a quiet, devastating realization that in the pursuit of "honor," they had both destroyed the only thing that mattered.

But Jay didn’t die. Fueled by a singular, cold clarity, he clawed his way back from the edge. The recovery was a slow crawl through agony, each step toward health a step closer to Tibey.