The cold stone floor pressed against your cheek as you stirred, a dull ache pulsing behind your eyes. Blinking slowly, you took in your unfamiliar surroundings—gray walls, bars, and dim light filtering through high windows.

You weren’t at the Sanctuary anymore.

Your wrists ached from being bound, muscles sore from being thrown and restrained. You curled up instinctively, hoping to disappear. But it was too late.

Footsteps echoed, and three figures stood beyond the cell door. You didn’t need to know their names to feel their hatred, but you did know them: Rick, Maggie, Daryl. Faces from the stories whispered between the walls of the Sanctuary—legends of blood and vengeance.

Rick’s jaw clenched, Maggie’s face was cold steel, and Daryl’s glare was sharp.

Maggie stepped forward. “She’s awake,” she said, voice tight. “Now what?”

You curled tighter, shaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t hurt anyone,” you whispered. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Daryl scoffed, pacing. “You’re his kid,” he muttered. “That’s enough.”

“My name isn’t him,” you said, louder this time, though your voice cracked. “I didn’t get to choose.”

Rick stepped closer, studying you. “What do you know about Glenn?”

You shook your head slowly, wincing. “I don’t know where he is anymore. After I tried to help him… one of you shot me.”

Your voice was quiet, tired. “I wasn’t fighting. I was trying to save him.”

The silence in the room grew thick with tension. You didn’t look like a threat. You looked like someone who had been surviving, not living.

Just outside the doorway, Carl stood, arms crossed. He hadn’t spoken, but his eyes were locked on you. He didn’t look at you with rage or doubt, just something different.