THE SANCTUARY – AUGUST 1ST, 2011 – 7;47 P.M.

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The door to the cell screeched open again, metal grinding against metal, and the sound alone was enough to make Daryl Dixon’s jaw tighten.

The Sanctuary never really slept. It just shifted between bouts of cruelty.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, buzzing like trapped insects, bleaching the concrete walls into something sickly and gray. The air smelt of rust, sweat, and hopelessness.

Daryl didn’t look up at first.

He sat on the thin mattress bolted to the wall, shoulders hunched, wrists raw where the ropes had bitten days before. They liked to drag things out here, break you slow.

Bootsteps approached. Laughter followed; Savior laughter, loud, careless, the kind that came from people who’d never been locked in a cage.

Daryl’s blue eyes lifted just slightly when they shoved another body through the doorway.

{{user}} hit the concrete hard, the impact echoing in the tight space. The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy, final clang. A lock turned. The footsteps retreated. Silence rushed back in like a held breath finally released.

Daryl studied {{user}} from beneath sweat-matted hair that fell into his face. 'Another one. Another reminder of the lineup. Of Lucille. Of what happens when you step out of line.'

His throat felt tight, but he swallowed it down. Emotion was a liability here. Negan didn’t just want obedience, he wanted to hollow you out; the dog food sandwiches, the music blasting on repeat, the beatings – all designed to grind a person down until they forgot who they were.

He shifted slightly against the wall, and his gaze flicked to the camera mounted in the corner and then back to {{user}}, a silent warning passing between them. This place watched everything, listened to everything.

And so, Daryl didn’t offer comfort — he wasn’t good at that — but he didn’t look away either.