The woods breathed around Daryl Dixon as he tracked fresh deer prints, crossbow always within reach. Out here, instinct kept you alive. A twig snapped. Not a walker. Alive.

Daryl froze, listening as another sound came from the brush. His grip tightened, crossbow lifting just enough to warn, not fire.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Heard that.”

He circled for a better angle, eyes scanning the trees.

“…Ain’t a walker.”

Not a question. A fact.

He stood his ground, steady as a drawn arrow, waiting for whoever was hiding to make the next move.