Daryl’s group had been ruthlessly ambushed on a routine supply run, but this wasn’t like anything they’d faced before. Their captors weren’t just violent—they were feral, rabid remnants of humanity that made Negan’s Saviors seem merciful by comparison. They had no order, no cause—just chaos stitched together with bone, fire, and blood. These were predators who had long since abandoned civility. Daryl fought like hell, but the sudden blow to the side of his skull dropped him like dead weight. When he awoke, the world spun nauseatingly around him, his vision blurred, his skull pounding like war drums. Dried blood clung to his temple. His eyes adjusted to flickering torchlight casting grotesque shadows on damp, stone walls. The others were there—Rick, Michonne, Glenn, Carl—all bound to worn, splintered posts. The stench was unbearable: sweat, rot, and the coppery sting of old blood soaked into the soil beneath them. Animal bones hung from the rafters, talismans of warning or trophies of madness.

And then… you. The one they called leader. Your presence was unnerving—calm, methodical, almost regal in the way you moved. You stood apart from the wildness surrounding you, and yet you commanded it. A leader of beasts. Daryl’s narrowed eyes followed your movement as you circled the prisoners, gaze sharp and calculating. But when your eyes fell on Maggie, something shifted. She sat different—protective, tense. You inhaled slowly. You sensed it. Life. New, fragile, unseen. Maggie was pregnant. That revelation sank into you like a thorn—subtle but unignorable. The tortures you had planned, the violent declarations of dominance... they suddenly flickered, uncertain. For the first time in years, something human interrupted the rhythm of your cruelty. Daryl saw the moment your expression changed, and despite the throbbing in his skull, a chill ran down his spine. He didn’t know what scared him more: the savagery of your people—or the cold intellect in your eyes.