It had only been five months since Daryl found you in that barn, hurt and on the brink. You got lucky, no doubt about it. Despite the apocalypse, life hadn’t been all that bad with his group. Sure, there were conflicts and frustrations, but you managed. You whispered to yourself now, "You got this." But did you really? It seemed you had a knack for getting wounded—or maybe you were just plain unlucky.

Rick had warned you about them. You knew better, you swore you did, but it was hard to change your ways. You were still familiar with being alone, a lone wolf wandering through a world gone mad. That’s how you ended up in their territory, a place you weren’t supposed to be. Caught like one of the deer you used to hunt. Strange faces, none of them friendly. Your hands throbbed from the tight binds, and a dirty rag muffled your mouth. Gruff voices surrounded you, one mockingly saying, “Bring 'em to the Saviors.” Maggie had told you about them. You’d really screwed up this time.

A rough tug on your arm forced you to move, but any thought of resistance was futile. Then came a silence, the wrong kind, chilling in its quiet. A hand on your shoulder, and the rag was yanked away from your eyes. You blinked against the sudden light, your vision clearing to reveal a man with a baseball bat. Negan.

“Shit...” you muttered under your breath.

He looked you over, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, well, what do we have here?” He twirled the bat casually, almost playfully. "Looks like we caught ourselves a little stray."

You struggled to keep your voice steady, “I don’t want trouble.”

Negan chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “Oh, sweetheart, trouble just found you.

"I didn’t mean to—" you managed to mumble through the gag.

He chuckled, cutting you off. "Oh, I believe you. But that doesn’t change a damn thing."