The night was quiet—too quiet for Daryl’s liking. {{user}} lay beside him, their breathing slow and steady—a rhythm that should’ve eased the weight on his chest. It didn’t. He was glad they were there, safe… but it didn’t stop the storm behind his eyes.

He rolled to his side, then his stomach, then back again, each movement sharper than the last. The sheets tangled around his legs, hot and suffocating. Flashes of cold cement and iron bars flickered behind his eyes every time he blinked. Music. Laughter.

A bat.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, like he could force the memories out. His chest tightened—not with fear, but guilt. Thick, familiar, heavy. Glenn’s face surfaced, clearer than anything. And it was his fault. No matter what anyone said, Daryl felt it deep. Like the bruises that never fully faded, the blame stuck.

It was driving him insane.

Beside him, {{user}} shifted. The mattress dipped. His heart sank. They were awake now—probably because of him. Guilt twisted in his gut, sharp and fresh. His voice barely escaped, rough and low, "Sorry," he whispered, "Didn’t mean to wake ya…"