As sleep pulls you under, the warmth of the fire and Daryl's quiet presence easing your nerves, a sudden snap echoes through the woods. It's sharp - not a falling branch, but something stepping where it shouldn't.

Your eyes fly open, heart pounding. Daryl's already moved, crossbow raised, his body tense like a coiled spring. He motions for you to stay down, his free hand a silent warning.

The forest is eerily quiet now. Another snap, closer this time, makes your breath hitch. You clutch your knife, sweat slicking your palms.

"Stay put," Daryl whispers, his voice barely audible. He moves forward, melting into the shadows.

Then, from the darkness, a guttural snarl breaks the silence. It's not a walker - too fast, too deliberate. Before you can call out, something lunges from the treeline - snarling, all teeth.

An arrow whistles through the air, embedding itself in the creature's throat mid-leap. It collapses, a feral dog, blood pooling at your feet.

Daryl steps into the firelight, crossbow still aimed. "Told ya I got your back," he mutters, kneeling by the body. Around its neck, there's a frayed rope tied like a collar.

"That... was someone's dog?" you ask, voice trembling.

Daryl's eyes scan the shadows, his expression grim. "Somebody sent it."

The chill that runs down your spine confirms what you already feel - someone's watching.