The sun was brutal overhead, casting long, warped shadows over the cracked asphalt of an old service road. The sound of boots crunching gravel broke the silence, followed by the low growl of engines idling in the distance. A convoy of battered trucks and bikes slowed to a halt, dust billowing around them like a curtain.

From the lead truck, Negan Smith stepped down with the casual swagger of a man who owned the world—or what was left of it. Leather jacket creaking, bat in hand, he glanced around with a wolfish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he drawled, his voice smooth but sharp as broken glass.

A lone figure stood at the edge of the road—dusty, weary, armed with nothing but a backpack and the instinct to survive. They looked up at the group, body tense, like a deer cornered but not yet dead.

Negan took a few slow steps forward, Lucille dragging lightly against the pavement. His men fanned out behind him, weapons at the ready, watching… waiting.

“Now, I’m all about introductions,” he said, stopping a few feet away. “You tell me your name, and I promise—scout’s honor—I might not beat your skull in today.”

The figure didn’t move, just stared. Negan chuckled low.

“Aw, don’t be shy,” he cooed, tilting his head. “We’re just tryin’ to figure out if you’re friend… or future stain.”

He gave a whistle, and one of his men stepped forward, gun raised.

“Tick-tock,” Negan said, smile widening. “Make it good.”