The wet thunk of a knife sliding through rotted skull echoes in the still air. Another walker drops, twitching before going still. You wipe your blade clean on your jeans, breath heaving, tank top clinging to your back with sweat and grime.

Maggie lets out a sharp breath as she pushes another body off the fence with a grunt. “That’s the last of ‘em—for now.”

You nod, reaching up to wipe your forehead, your shoulder blade twisting with the motion. The wide neck of your tank top slips further, revealing a vivid tattoo inked along your upper back. The image of Medusa — hair of serpents, eyes full of fury and pain — stares defiantly out in dark, swirling lines.

Maggie sees it. Freezes. For a long moment, she says nothing.

“…That new?” she finally asks, quiet.

You hesitate. Then, just as quietly: “No. Had it for a while.”

There’s weight behind that ink. You don’t explain it, but you don’t have to. The kind of tattoo that says you survived something no one should’ve had to survive.

Maggie doesn’t pry. She just nods once, eyes understanding, and gives your arm a brief squeeze. “You ever wanna talk…”

You nod, eyes fixed ahead—but you feel it. The shift. The unspoken truth now lingering between you.

And somewhere behind you, near the prison gate—Daryl’s watching. He’s supposed to be checking perimeter traps, but his eyes are fixed on you, jaw tight, like he just saw something he wasn’t meant to… but can’t unsee.