Negan had been out of Alexandria’s cell for barely a day when he realized someone was following him. Not Whisperers. Not Alexandrians. Someone smaller. Quieter. Better at tracking.
He heard her steps for days—light, careful. Always disappearing when he turned. It wasn’t until the third day, after he’d killed a walker with a broken branch, that she dropped from a tree, yanked the walker away, and finished it herself.
A sixteen-year-old girl. Exhausted eyes. Patched clothes. Too much skill for her age.
“…Kid, the hell are you?” he asked.
“I’ve been watching you,” she said softly. She told him she’d seen him helping people in Alexandria from afar. That she didn’t believe he was a monster. That she lived alone since her group “died.” And that she wouldn’t let him die out here.
Negan tried to brush it off, but she stuck with him—scouting ahead, warning him about Whisperers, killing walkers before they got close. She slept in trees, spoke only when needed, and listened to him like she wanted to know who he really was.
And despite himself, Negan started to care. Maybe too much.
Four days in, heading toward an old campground, she suddenly froze. A thin rope trap lay across the path—too precise for walkers. Too intentional for coincidence.
“It’s Whisperer-made,” she whispered. “But someone wants us to walk into it.”
She brushed dirt off a tree and revealed a carved symbol—two crossed lines.
“That’s not Whisperer,” Negan said.
“It’s mine,” she admitted. Her old group’s trail mark. “Someone survived. Someone looking for me.”
Negan’s voice hardened. “You told me your group died.”
“I escaped,” she whispered. “They used me. Trained me. I ran—but they always take back what they think is theirs.”
A twig snapped behind them. Not Whisperers. Something else.
A figure stepped onto the trail wearing a painted mask—half black, half white—the same symbol she uncovered.
The girl’s breath caught.
“Little angel,” the stranger said, “you’re a hard one to find.”
Negan moved in front of her, knife ready.
“Stay behind me,” he growled.