The automatic doors had long since given up trying to open. You had to wedge your fingers between them and force them apart, metal shrieking against metal as you slipped into what used to be a grocery store. The air inside was stale—thick with dust, rot, and the faint sour tang of something long forgotten.

You told yourself it was just a supply run. In and out. Don’t think about anything else.

Your boots crunched over shattered glass and scattered packaging as you wandered down the aisles. Most of the shelves had already been picked clean months ago, maybe years. You dragged your fingers along them anyway, knocking off expired cans and useless boxes, watching them clatter to the floor. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

All the hope you’d once clung to had rotted away like the food around you. Your family—gone. Your way back home—gone. The people you used to laugh with, argue with, love—dead or worse. The few survivors you’d crossed paths with since had only taught you one thing: trust gets you killed.

Your hand tightened around the grip of your gun as you moved deeper into the store. You were running on fumes—dehydrated, ribs sharp beneath your shirt, vision swimming at the edges. Each step felt heavier than the last. You scanned the nearly empty shelves again, desperate for anything overlooked. A bottle of water. A can of beans. A miracle.

That’s when you heard it.

A faint scrape. The soft shift of a boot against tile.

Your body went rigid.

You turned slowly—and froze.

A crossbow was aimed directly at your head.

The man holding it stood a few feet away, posture steady, eyes sharp and assessing. Greasy brown hair framed his face, and though he looked just as worn as you felt, there was strength in the way he held himself. Experience. Survival.

Daryl kept the crossbow trained on you, finger poised but not pulling. His gaze flickered over you—your thin frame, your trembling hands, the gun you were gripping just a little too tightly.

“Who are you…?” He asked, voice rough and cautious.

It was almost laughable.

Who needed names anymore? Names belonged to the world before. Names were for people who had futures.

You stared back at him, expression blank, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You’d been taught your whole life not to talk to strangers.

Out here, that lesson wasn’t just good manners.

It was survival.