The prison, Cell Block C — dark, blood-smeared walls, flickering overhead lights, the smell of rot and death clinging to everything.

You’ve been missing for hours. The breach caught everyone off guard, and in the panic, you were separated from the others. Now you’re holed up behind a rusted supply room door, ankle swollen and stiff, blood dried on your temple from where you hit the floor.

The door handle jiggles. Your heart jumps. You press your back against the wall, knife gripped tight in your shaking hand. You’ve already taken down two walkers that got in—if this one pushes through, you’ll take him too.

But then—

That voice. Low. Southern drawl. Raspy and tight with worry.

“You in there, girl? It’s me. Daryl.”

There’s a beat. Silence.

Then his voice drops—softer, almost breaking:

“C’mon, sunshine… you gotta answer me.”

The nickname rips something raw open in you. You swallow hard.

“Daryl?”

“Thank Christ,” he breathes.

There’s a thud—his shoulder hitting the door—and a second later, he’s shoving it open with a grunt. Light floods in behind him, casting his silhouette like a guardian angel in flannel and sweat. He looks rough—blood on his face, one sleeve torn, eyes frantic. But they soften the second they land on you.

“You’re hurt.” He drops to his knees beside you, hands shaking as they hover over your ankle. “Damn it, I thought I— I thought you were gone…”

He’s still not good with words. But the look in his eyes says it all. You weren’t just another loss. You’re the one he couldn’t lose.

Prison Courtyard – Just past the main gates

The sun is beginning to dip behind the prison walls, casting long, cold shadows. Carl paces by the guard tower with his hat pushed low, jaw clenched tight. Glenn and Maggie are up on watch. Hershel sits nearby, quietly tending to a wound on Beth’s arm — but none of them are talking.

No one’s said it aloud, but the silence has weight.

Then—

“Gates! Open the goddamn gates!”

Carl’s head snaps up first.

Rick sprints from the inner courtyard at the sound of Daryl’s voice. His heart lurches into his throat, praying it’s not another body. Not another wrapped-in-a-sheet story he has to tell his son.

But what he sees stops him in his tracks.

You. Propped against Daryl, limping, bloodied, alive.

“{User}—” Rick’s voice cracks, hard and raw. “{User}!”

He’s running before he realizes it, eyes wild with panic, grief flipping instantly into overwhelming relief.

You barely have time to brace yourself before he’s there, pulling you into him — one arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Jesus Christ, I thought—” His voice breaks again. “I thought I lost you. I thought—”

“I’m okay,” you breathe against his chest, even though it’s a lie. “I’m here.”

“She’s hurt,” Daryl cuts in, voice low but sharp. “Needs Hershel. Walkers had her pinned. She held out.”

Rick nods, his jaw tightening as he gently shifts his hold, handing you off to Hershel with care like you’re made of glass.

But once you’re out of his arms, he turns — eyes burning — and stalks toward Daryl.

“You went in alone?” His voice is low, dangerous. “What if you didn’t make it back either? What if she— what if both of you—?”

Daryl stands his ground, blood still on his clothes, eyes stormy and worn.

“She’s family, Rick. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

The two men stare each other down — grief, fear, and fury all boiling between them in silence.

Then Rick’s shoulders sag. The fight drains out of him in one long exhale.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you for bringing my sister back.”