#twd angst

The prison was no longer the hollow, echoing carcass it had once been when you first cleared it, when every footstep ricocheted off concrete and steel like a warning shot, when the silence had felt safer than people ever did. Now it breathed with life, with voices layered over one another in the cellblocks, with the metallic clatter of gates sliding open and shut, with the low murmur of arguments, laughter and crying babies at odd hours of the night and with that life came weight, the kind that settled across your shoulders and refused to be shrugged off.

There were more mouths to feed, more patrols to organize, more weak spots in the fencing to reinforce, more eyes to watch for the Governor’s shadow stretching across the yard and you kept busy because busy meant you didn’t have to sit still long enough for your thoughts to circle back to him, to Merle or Daryl, to the choice that had fractured something fragile and ugly between you. 

Daryl kept busy too, almost violently so, especially after his brother’s death. He moved like a man who couldn’t afford to stop, like if he did the grief might catch up and sink its teeth in.

His pain had softened the sharpest edges of your anger, though not in the way people might expect, because you didn’t mourn Merle and you wouldn’t lie and say you did, but you mourned the fact that after everything, after all the blood, betrayal and broken trust, the loss still mattered to Daryl, still hollowed him out in ways you could notice in the way he stared too long at nothing and how his hands flexed at his sides when someone mentioned family. 

That stirred something uncomfortable in you, something older than the prison or the break up. It was a reflex born from people never staying, from learning early that attachment was a luxury that turned into a liability the moment the ground shifted beneath your feet.

Some days were better than others. Some days you could sit in the same car as him on a supply run without the air feeling too thin to breathe and without counting the seconds between words. Some days you didn’t veer down a different hallway the second you heard the familiar rhythm of his boots on concrete, didn’t force yourself to take the long way back to the cellblock just to avoid the weight of what hung unsaid between you. Other days, you were sharper, colder, convincing yourself that his endless hunts for the Governor weren’t born from responsibility or loyalty but from guilt and you resented him for needing redemption you weren’t sure you could grant.

It was late when the council gathered in the prison library, the room lit by a handful of lanterns that cast wavering shadows against shelves still half-filled with warped paperbacks and mildewed encyclopedias, the air smelling faintly of dust and oil. You were the last to step inside, closing the heavy door behind you with a quiet click, lingering near it instead of taking a seat, listening to the tail end of Carol and Hershel’s low conversation about dwindling antibiotics and the next rotation of watch shifts, your fingers absently tracing the spine of a book on a nearby desk without seeing the title.

Daryl’s voice cut through the room, gravelly and steady from where he sat slouched in an old wooden chair, boots planted wide. “Gotta make time to go out there. Do what needs to be done.”

His eyes were mostly on Michonne, who leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, exhaustion etched into the tight line of her mouth. She’d been searching just as relentlessly as he had but with Rick stepping back from leadership, she was needed within the walls more than ever and that reality sat heavy on her shoulders.

“I don’t know where to look anymore,” she admitted, pushing off the wall just enough to pace a step before settling again. “It’s getting tiring. I don’t know if the anger I’ve got left is enough fuel to trump that.”

Silence stretched thin across the room after that, taut as wire. People avoided your gaze almost instinctively, as if the tension between you and Daryl was something physical that could scorch them if they looked at it too directly…everyone except him. He looked at you without flinching, unafraid.

You and Daryl had always been a good pair outside the walls, efficient, wordless and able to read each other’s movements without needing explanation, a rhythm that made survival look almost effortless and everyone in that room knew it.

You exhaled slowly and turned toward the door, wrapping your hand around the knob intending to slip out before the conversation tilted any further in your direction but Glenn’s softer voice caught the air behind you, calling your name.

“We need new eyes out there.” Daryl added, quieter now. His gaze was still on you when you turned back despite yourself.

“And I needed you,” you said, your voice even but tight around the edges. “As in past tense…That trumps what you need, Daryl. It’s too late.”

Heads lowered almost in unison, shame or discomfort pulling them down, except his. He held your stare like he was bracing for impact.

“I’m not pretending we weren’t all hurt by something he did,” you continued, the words measured but edged with steel. “Hell, this place is full of his victims…but I’m trying to move forward, because a scar can’t heal if you keep digging your finger in it.”

The door shut behind you with more force than you intended, the echo reverberating down the hallway and leaving a silence thick enough to choke on.

Inside the library, Daryl’s eyes flicked to Carol, one of the only two people who knew even half of what was splintering through your head. She’d tried to bridge the distance between you more than once but once you realized that, you’d started guarding your thoughts from her too.

“Need ‘er out there,” Daryl said, like it was a fact carved into stone.

“She’s barely been outside the walls since,” Hershel replied carefully. “We’re only living in a prison, son, but she’s making it hers.”

“She wants to leave,” Glenn blurted before he could stop himself, arms crossing defensively when all eyes snapped to him. “Maggie…Maggie thinks that’s why she won’t go out anymore. She’s forcing herself to stay put so she doesn’t get the urge to run.”

Daryl rose abruptly, chair legs scraping harsh against the floor and strode out without another word, boots carrying him down the hall with a familiarity that suggested his body knew where you’d retreat long before his mind admitted it.

The administrative wing was dimmer, quieter, the hum of distant voices fading into a low murmur. Light spilled from beneath one half-open door and he paused there for a fraction of a second before pushing it wider with a careful hand.

You stood in front of a large corkboard you’d mounted to the wall weeks ago, a detailed map pinned at its center, edges curling slightly from humidity. Sections were crossed out in thick black lines while others were circled, annotated in your tight handwriting along the margins. A ruler lay on the desk behind you beside a compass and a stack of folded paper, like you’d been measuring distances, calculating something far beyond the walls.

He recognized the crossed-out areas instantly as places he and Michonne had searched for the Governor without success. The circled ones were farther out, more remote.

“’S tha’ where yer plannin’ to run off to?” he asked, voice low but not accusing, more tired than anything else.

You didn’t turn right away. Your shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. “I’m not leaving.”

“Ya ain’t here either,” he shot back, stepping further into the room but stopping short of crowding you. “They barely see ya.” His hand gestured vaguely toward the cellblock. “I don’t see ya at all. ’Cept I know tha’s on purpose.”

You turned then, finally facing him, eyes rimmed with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore but hadn’t softened into forgiveness either. “What do you want me to do?” you asked. “Do you want me to lie and say I’m sorry your excuse of a brother’s dead? That I could hear you crying at night and it broke my heart not to let myself go to you?”

The words hung heavy between you.

His jaw tightened, throat working as he swallowed. “I want ya t’ stay,” he said, voice stripped down to something raw and honest. “Be mad, hate me if ya gotta. Just…stay.”

A humorless laugh slipped from you as you shook your head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, hands flexing at his sides, careful not to move closer in case you bolted.

“That,” you said, pointing at him faintly. “The soft voice…and the apologetic, deer-caught-in-headlights look like you’re waiting for a sentence to be handed down.” Your voice dropped. “I don’t know how to forgive you. I don’t know if I already have and if that’s what this is then I need a better reason to accept it than ‘because I’m in love with you.’”

Silence pooled in the room, thick and pressing. He let it stretch, eyes drifting briefly to the map behind you before returning to your face.

“Should figure tha’ out ’fore you go,” he said quietly.

You held his gaze. “Need to find a reason to stay first.”

Before the sun even dared to crest the trees, there was a kind of hush over the clearing outside the prison gates. It wasn’t silence, not truly, not with the wind worrying the grass and the low grind of Daryl’s boots against gravel but the sort of hush that comes before something breaks.

He was walking away, Daryl Dixon ever the leaver…And he was doing it with Merle, the man who'd helped hand you over to a monster, the man who laughed while the Governor pressed bruises into your skin and dignity into the floor.

He approached you anyway, hand half-lifted, eyes unsure. You didn’t flinch or cry, you didn’t say anything at all, just turned on your heel and walked straight to the car.

It wasn’t dignity or strength. It was the kind of still, heavy surrender that came after pain had already hollowed you out, the kind that made people around you whisper your name and ask if you were okay when they knew damn well the answer. 

Back at the prison, you barely spoke and chose to sit alone during meals, took watch shifts that weren’t yours and slept in an empty cell no one else dared to enter because it was too quiet. It wasn’t grief, not exactly. It was the absence of everything that used to matter.

And then the Governor came.

Not with the full force of his madness, not yet, just as a test, a warning…a sick tease. A few men, a truck and enough firepower to remind the world what it meant to fear. You didn’t wait and shot first, that time you didn’t aim for limbs or tires or chances, you shot to kill. There was a precision in it, a cold, detached brutality that made even Rick glance twice before giving his next command. Maggie said later, under her breath, that she’d never seen you like that, that your hands didn’t shake and your breathing never changed.

They were gone in the blink of an eye and Daryl was back.

He walked through the gates with Merle behind him like a shadow, both dirty, breathing and alive but still, you didn’t say a word or look at him. 

You barely blinked, just walked back inside, up the stairs and into the far end of the cellblock D, the one no one used because the roof leaked and the light bulbs buzzed with a sickly green tinge. You sat down on the floor, cross-legged, a combat knife in one hand and a whetstone in the other, dragging steel against stone in long, whispering arcs over and over, until you heard boots.

He didn’t announce himself, never did but the weight of him in a room was unmistakable.

You didn’t look up. He stood just inside the doorway, arms slack at his sides, face drawn with whatever he couldn’t say.

“Does he love you yet?” you asked, voice flat, eyes still on the blade.

He flinched. “That ain’t fair.”

You laughed sharply, the sound was bitter to unprepared ears. You stood in one fluid motion, blade dangling at your side.

“What do you know about fair?” You shoved him once, hard in the chest but he barely moved. “Tell me, Daryl. What do you fucking know about it?” You shoved him again. “You know what Merle did. You knew and still left…Still you chose him.”

He opened his mouth but you weren’t finished, couldn’t be, not with everything screaming under your skin the same way it had been for the past few days while you stayed silent.

“You said you loved me, you held me when I couldn’t sleep, touched me like I was something worth saving.” Your voice cracked before you laughed again but it came out wrong, thick. “And then you walked away for him, the man who helped destroy me.”

“He’s m’ brother,” Daryl muttered, like it explained anything.

You shook your head, pacing now, circling your anger like it was prey. “No. Don’t you dare make this about blood, you had a choice! You chose him…you chose to leave me.”

“I came back,” he said, desperate now. “I came back, didn’t I? ’m here.”

You stopped walking and turned to face him, eyes watering despite yourself. “A man who always comes back,” you whispered, “is also a man who will always leave.”

He took a step forward and you took one back.

“It shouldn’t have taken me until the end of the world to understand that.”

“Please,” Daryl said, his voice breaking now. “Just... don’t give up on us.”

You laughed again and this time it hurt, this time it cracked something open and you almost choked on it. “Us?” You walked right up to him, eyes wide, wet and furious. “You think there’s still an us? You left me in that hell. You left me to sleep beside the memory of a man who tore me apart, while you played family reunion with the one who handed me over. There is no ‘us’.”

He reached for you but you pushed him back, hard. Again and again like your body couldn’t stop the need to create distance between two broken souls that wouldn’t fix each other.

“’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I thought...”

You scoffed, almost sobbing through it, in a way that hurt your throat. “You thought it’d be okay? That you could come back and I’d still be waiting…for you?” You backed away. “It’s over.”

He froze. “What’s over?”

“This,” you said. “Whatever this was. I’m done begging for the bare minimum. I’m done hoping you’ll choose me….I’m done.” You said it again, like maybe the repetition would help you believe it. “I’m done.”

He didn’t speak or move, he just stood there, like if he stayed still enough, you wouldn’t really disappear.

You turned away before you broke again. 

Your hands trembled as you reached for the next blade on the bed, metal blurred through tears you didn’t get to wipe away. You worked because working meant surviving and surviving meant not collapsing onto the floor and screaming.

Your breath came in stuttering sobs that you tried to swallow, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding yourself upright when everything in you wanted to fall apart.

“I’m here now,” he said, barely above a whisper. “We can figure it out. Don’t have to throw it all away.”

You looked at him then the way someone looks at a wound that healed wrong and will never stop aching.

Your voice was now steady in the way heartbreak can sometimes be sharp, clean…lethal.

The leaves on the trees beyond the fence have turned vibrant shades of orange and red, nature oblivious to the apocalypse unfolding beneath it.

The walkers at the fence snarl and reach through the links with decaying fingers, drawn by your movement.

"Take the bike," Daryl says to Glen, handing over the keys to his motorcycle. A gesture that speaks volumes about the urgency of the situation.

Glenn nods, taking the keys. "We'll be back before dark."

"Y'better be," Daryl muttered, his eyes briefly flicking to you from under his fringe before returning to Glen.

Glen and Maggie saddled up for the run. It was supposed to be quick—check the town over the ridge, grab baby formula, and be back by midafternoon. Daryl had even muttered that it was probably a waste of gas.

“Ain’t nothin’ left in that dump,” he said, but there was tension in the way he checked the fuel twice anyway.

You stood near the gate as they left, arms wrapped around yourself. Glen had promised he'd grab something sweet if they found anything. Maggie smiled, hopeful, tired.

You watched until their silhouettes disappeared down the road.

Daryl didn’t watch. He just clicked the gate shut, jaw tight.

Glen feels Maggie's arms tighten around his waist as he navigates around a small cluster of walkers on the highway. The motorcycle's engine growls beneath them, loud enough that he winces at the attention it might draw.

But they need speed now more than stealth.

The landscape blurs around them—abandoned cars with open doors, scattered belongings that tell stories of panic and flight, the occasional corpse that hasn't risen. The road ahead is relatively clear, a small mercy in this world of endless complications.

"There!" Maggie shouts over the engine, pointing to a green sign indicating a shopping center at the next exit.

Glen nods, slowing as he takes the exit ramp. They're entering a small town now, buildings lining either side of the main street. The streets are eerily empty save for a few walkers that turn at the sound of the motorcycle.

"Let's try there," he says, pointing to a small grocery store with its windows intact. "Might have a baby section."

He parks the bike behind the building. The silence after cutting the engine is jarring, making every small sound—the distant moan of walkers, the rustle of leaves, their own breathing—seem amplified.

Maggie dismounts first, drawing her knife. Glen follows, taking his gun from its holster but keeping it lowered. Bullets are a last resort these days.

"Stay close," he whispers, moving toward the back entrance of the store.

The door is locked, but a broken window nearby offers entry. Glen climbs through first, glass crunching under his boots as he lands in what appears to be a storage room. He helps Maggie through, their hands linking together.

"We get in, find the formula, and get out," he says softly, before bringing her hand up and pressing a kiss to her knuckles before dropping it again.

"No detours, no matter what we see."

Maggie nods, her green eyes serious in the dim light filtering through the dirty window. "For the baby."

They move cautiously into the main area of the store. The shelves are mostly empty, picked clean in the early days of the outbreak, but some items remain scattered on the floor—canned goods dented and forgotten, packages of dried pasta, a child's stuffed animal stained dark with something neither wants to identify.

The baby section is partially intact. Glen feels a surge of hope as he spots several containers of formula pushed to the back of a shelf, as if someone had been interrupted while taking the ones in front.

"Got it," he says, reaching for the containers and stuffing them in a stray shopping basket. "Let's see if there's anything else—diapers, wipes."

Maggie keeps watch at the end of the aisle as Glen gathers what they need. Her posture is tense, one hand wrapped around her knife, the other ready to draw her gun if necessary.

"Glen," she whispers urgently. "We've got company."

He turns to see three walkers shambling toward them from the front of the store, drawn by their voices or movement or simply by the presence of fresh meat in their territory.

"Back the way we came," he says, zipping up the backpack. "Quick and quiet."

They retreat toward the storage room, but a crash from that direction freezes them in place. More walkers, coming through the broken window they'd used to enter.

"Front door," Maggie decides, pulling Glen toward the main entrance. "Run!"

They sprint past the approaching walkers, dodging grasping hands and snapping teeth. Glen slams his knife into the temple of one that gets too close, the blade making a sickening sound as it penetrates the rotting skull.

The front doors are chained shut from the outside, but a large display window beside them has been shattered. They climb through, careful of the jagged glass edges, emerging onto the main street just as more walkers round the corner of the building.

"The bike," Glenn gasps, pulling Maggie toward the alley. "We need to—"

His words cut off as they round the corner and come face to face with a man standing beside Daryl's motorcycle. A man with a metal apparatus attached where his hand should be.

A man Glen recognizes instantly.

"Well, well," Merle Dixon drawls, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Ain't this a surprise."

Glen instinctively pushes Maggie behind him, his gun coming up to point at Merle's chest. "Stay back."

"That any way to greet an old friend?" Merle asks, stepping forward despite the weapon aimed at him. His own gun—secured to his metal stump in place of a hand—rises to match Glen's. "Especially one who you folks left for dead."

"You left us no choice," Glen says, his voice steadier than he feels. "You were out of control."

Merle laughs, a harsh sound that scrapes against Glen's nerves. "That what Officer Friendly told you? That what my baby brother believes?"

"Daryl went back for you," Glenn says. "We all did."

"Not soon enough," Merle snarls, all pretense of friendliness vanishing. "But that's water under the bridge now, ain't it? 'Cause I need you to take me to him."

Behind Glen, Maggie's breath quickens. The walkers from the store are approaching from behind Merle, drawn by their voices.

"We need to go," Glen says, gesturing to the approaching dead. "All of us. We can talk about this somewhere safe."

Merle glances casually over his shoulder at the walkers. "Don't think so, Chinaman. You're gonna take me to my brother now. Drop the gun."

"I'm Korean," Glen mutters automatically, not lowering his weapon. "And we can't. We have to get back—there's a baby that needs this formula."

Something flickers across Merle's face—surprise, perhaps—before it hardens again. "Well now, that complicates things, don't it?" He aims his gun at Maggie. "Drop it, or your pretty girlfriend gets a new hole to breathe through."

Glen's heart pounds in his chest. The walkers are getting closer. They're running out of time and options.

Glen slowly places his gun on the ground.

He gestures with his gun toward a vehicle parked further down the alley—an old pickup truck. "Move. Both of you."

As they're forced toward the truck, Glen catches Maggie's eye. Her expression is a mixture of fear and determination, and he knows she's thinking the same thing he is they need to find a way out of this, not just for themselves but for the baby waiting back at the prison.

Merle binds their hands with zip ties he produces from his pocket, shoving them into the back of the truck. As he starts the engine.

"The formula," Glen says as Merle begins to drive, the walkers falling behind them. "The baby will die without it."

"Should've thought of that before you left me chained up on that roof," Merle replies coldly, turning onto the main road and accelerating away from the town.

Glen looks at Maggie, silently promising her they'll find a way out of this. She nods slightly, understanding the unspoken communication born from months of surviving together, of building a life amid death.

What neither of them notices is the figure a few blocks back, a hooded woman with a sword strapped to her back and a gunshot wound in her leg, watching as the truck disappears around a corner.

The woman staggered her way to the prison, her dark eyes wary but determined. Blood trickled from a wound on her leg, and her breathing came in labored gasps. Yet she carried herself with a warrior's pride, a katana strapped to her back glinting in the fading light.

As soon as you saw Carl take off you followed him, detriment not to let him shoulder more adult responsibilities then absolutely necessary.

Daryl passed 'Lil Asskicker' to Carol before shrugging his crossbow onto his shoulder following after both of you.

Carl had already reached the inner gate, gun drawn. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice cracking with the effort to sound authoritative.

The woman regarded him with surprise, clearly not expecting to be confronted by a child.

"I saw your people," she replied, leaning heavily against the fence. "Asian guy and the girl."

Daryl pushed past you, his body language instantly aggressive. "Where are they? What'd you do to them?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "I didn't do anything. They were taken."

A cold wave of dread washed over you. "Taken? By who?"

"A man with a metal thing on his arm," she answered, gesturing to her own arm.

The cell block was tense with whispered conversations and fearful glances as you helped Beth prepare a bottle for the baby form the formula the woman, Michonne had brought with her.

She sat, albeit reluctantly on a metal bench while Hershel tended to her wounds.

Her story had come out in terse, clipped sentences: a place called Woodbury, fortified and led by someone called the Governor.

"Your friends were taken there," she explained, wincing as Hershel cleaned a particularly deep gash on her leg. "It's about eight miles from here."

"And they just let you go?" Carol asked skeptically, cradling the fussing infant.

Michonne's expression darkened. "I wasn't with them. I was... leaving Woodbury. Saw the abduction from the woods. Followed your people's trail here."

"Why?" You asked, although there was nothing accusatory in your tone as you measured baby formula carefully. "Why help us?"

Her eyes met yours, filled with a pain that went beyond physical wounds. "The Governor... he's not what he seems. And those people, your friends, they don't deserve what's coming to them."

The implication hung heavy in the air. Daryl, who had been pacing like a caged animal, suddenly slammed his fist against a table, crossbow still strapped on his back like it was just another part of him.

"We gotta go get 'em," he growled. "Now."

"We need a plan," Hershel cautioned, finishing the bandage on Michonne's leg. "Rushing in will only get more people hurt."

In the dimly lit interior of the truck, Glen watches the passing landscape through the small rear window, trying to memorize landmarks, turns, anything that might help if they manage to escape. Beside him, Maggie remains tense but calm, her eyes occasionally meeting his in silent communication.

Merle whistles tunelessly from the driver's seat, seemingly unbothered by the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The metal contraption where his hand should be taps against the steering wheel in an irregular rhythm.

"Must say, I'm surprised my baby brother took up with you people again after Atlanta," Merle says conversationally, as if they're on a pleasant road trip. "Always was too soft for his own good."

"Daryl's not soft," Glen retorts before he can think better of it. "He's survived just like the rest of us. Better than most."

Merle chuckles, a sound devoid of actual humor. "That right? And I suppose he's all domesticated now, playing house with Officer Friendly and his band of misfits?"

"He's respected," Maggie speaks up, her accent thickening with emotion. "He's a valued member of our group."

"Bullshit," Merle scoffs. "You mean the same group that left me chained to a roof?"

"You were out of control," Glen repeats his earlier assertion. "And like I said, we went back for you."

"Too little, too late," Merle replies, his voice hardening. "But water under the bridge now, right? We're all gonna have ourselves a nice little reunion."

The truck turns onto a road lined with tall pines, the branches creating a tunnel-like effect that makes Glen feel even more trapped. He tests his bindings subtly, but the zip ties are secured too tightly to offer any hope of slipping free.

"Where exactly are you taking us?" Maggie asks after a stretch of silence.

"Someplace safe," Merle answers, his tone mocking. "Walls, electricity, running water. Regular paradise in this shithole world."

"And what happens when we get there?" Glen presses.

Merle glances at them in the rearview mirror, his eyes glinting with something that makes Glen's stomach turn. "That depends on how cooperative you decide to be. Governor's gonna have questions. About your group, your numbers, your weapons."

"Governor?" Glen exchanges a look with Maggie. "What kind of place is this?"

"The kind that's gonna survive this mess," Merle says with conviction. "The kind with rules, order. The kind that's building something while the rest of the world burns."

The trees begin to thin, and ahead, Glenn can make out lights in the gathering dusk—actual electric lights illuminating what appears to be a massive wall constructed from salvaged materials. Guards with rifles patrol the top, their silhouettes visible against the darkening sky.

"Welcome to Woodbury," Merle announces as they approach the fortified entrance. "Home sweet home."

The gates swing open as the truck approaches, revealing a street that looks like a snapshot from before the world ended—clean, orderly, with actual working streetlights.

The world had ended quietly. Not with fire or thunder—but with the silence that came after the screaming stopped.

You used to know what day of the week it was. Home, school, ballet practice—then again. Your life was routine, predictable. Clean tights, warm dinners. Your uncle Daryl tried to keep it that way for as long as he could, even after the outbreak. He did what he could to shield you from the worst of it.

But your dad? Merle never tried to shield you from anything. And now, without drugs or booze to fog his mind, he was mean in a way that cut sharper than a knife.

It was just another stale morning at camp. Glenn and his crew had gone out on a run—probably raiding pharmacies and corner stores, if anything was left. The women stayed behind, busy with cooking, watching the kids, and keeping the fire going. The air smelled like smoke, sweat, and dried blood.

You were playing tag with Carl and Sophia near the edge of the camp—your laughter the only sound that didn’t feel borrowed from another life—when you heard Merle’s voice.

“Hey! C’mere!”

You stopped mid-run, breath hitching in your chest.

“Time out!” you called to Carl and Sophia before jogging over.

Merle stood near a tree, arms crossed, a half-used cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His face was worn leather—creased, sunburned, unshaved. But his eyes, always sharp, locked onto you.

“You remember askin’ me to teach you how to hunt?” he asked, crouching down to your eye level.

You nodded. “Yeah…”

“Well, let’s go then.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Go get your knife.”

He stood up and clapped a heavy hand on your shoulder before turning toward the woods. You bolted to the tents, grabbed your small blade, and sprinted after him, excitement bubbling in your chest.

You wanted him to see you. Not just look at you—but see you. Maybe this was your shot.

The woods swallowed you both quickly—branches creaked, birds scattered, and the dry leaves underfoot cracked like old bones. Neither of you said a word. You stayed close, heart thudding in time with your footsteps.

After a while, you heard a soft rustle up ahead. You froze. There, just beyond a fallen log, was a rabbit. Small. White. Almost glowing in the shadows.

Your breath caught. It looked just like the one you used to keep in a cage on your porch—before the world got ugly.

You knelt down slowly, reaching out. The rabbit twitched its nose and crept closer.

Then—thwip!

A blade sang past your face. It buried itself into the rabbit’s side with a sickening thunk. Blood spilled like ink.

You gasped, stumbling back. “No!” you whispered.

The rabbit writhed, kicking weakly. You fell to your knees, hands shaking, and tried to soothe it. “Shhh… shhh… it’s okay, it’s okay…”

“What the fuck are you doin’?” Merle barked behind you.

You looked back at him, eyes wide and wet. “Why’d you do that?”

“It’s a rabbit,” he scoffed. “Not your goddamn friend.”

You turned back to the rabbit, whispering softly, trying to make it stop twitching.

Merle crouched beside you again. “You wanted to learn, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean like this…”

“Kill it,” he said flatly.

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He nodded toward the struggling animal. “You wanna eat, you gotta learn. Kill it.”

“I… I just wanted to watch, I don’t—”

“Kill. Him.” His voice was like gravel, low and cold.

You reached toward the knife stuck in the rabbit’s side.

“No.” He grabbed your wrist. “With your knife.”

“Why?”

No answer. Just the weight of his stare as he yanked your knife from your belt and forced it into your palm.

“Go on. Do it.”

You hesitated. “Dad, I don’t want to…”

Merle’s lip curled into a sneer. “What’s the matter? You a pussy now?”

Your throat tightened. “What?”

“Pussy can’t even finish off a rabbit,” he muttered. “Figures.”

“Dad, please…”

He’d had enough. Without warning, he grabbed your wrist, twisted it, and drove the blade down—hard. You screamed as the knife sank into the rabbit’s neck. Blood soaked your hands.

It stopped moving.

You scrambled backward, stumbling to your feet. Your breath came in ragged gasps. You stared at him like he was a monster.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you choked out, tears burning hot down your cheeks.

Merle just lit another cigarette. “World’s gone to shit, kid. You better toughen up.”

You didn’t wait. You turned and ran.

Branches tore at your arms as you sprinted back toward camp. The taste of blood—iron and sick—was thick in your throat.

Then—wham. You collided with something solid and dropped hard onto your backside.

“Whoa—hey, hey,” a voice said, gruff but calm. “You alright?”

You looked up. Daryl.

He knelt down fast, hands on your shoulders. “What the hell’re you doin’ out here by yourself?”

You couldn’t answer. You just stared at your hands—sticky, stained red. Then back at him.

“I didn’t wanna kill it,” you sobbed. “He made me.”

Daryl’s jaw tensed. He looked down at the blood, then back at you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just let you cry.

Finally, he cupped your hands and forced you to look at him.

“Hey. Look at me.” His voice was quieter now.

You did, eyes wide, face streaked with tears and dirt.

“I, uh… I found some of them berries you like,” he said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up, huh? Then we’ll eat ’em.”

You sniffled, nodding.

Daryl stood and gently took your hand.

He didn’t say it, but his jaw clenched a little tighter as he led you back to camp.