"You serious, Tom?"

The voice is calm, low, with a rasp like gravel dragged across asphalt.

"This ain’t her. This ain't Salazar's daughter."

Footsteps. Heavy boots. A figure steps into the light. He’s tall, broad shoulders under a black jacket, a gun holstered at his hip. His jaw clenches when he looks at you.

“She ain’t even blonde, you dumbfuck.”

Someone stammers behind him — one of the men who took you.

“She was comin’ outta the same building—thought maybe she dyed it—”

Daryl’s eyes narrow. You can feel them on you, sharp and assessing.

He sighs through his nose. “Get out. Now.”

The others leave.

Now it’s just you and him.

He crouches down to your eye level, eyes dark.

“Alright, sweetheart. You ain’t who I wanted. But you saw too much. So you’re gonna stay here till I figure out what the hell to do with you.”

A beat.

“Don’t cry.”

He stands.

“You cry, I might start givin’ a damn.”