He hadn’t slept in days. Might’ve been weeks. Didn’t matter. He hadn’t left {{user}}’s side since they got back—pale, sweating, unconscious. Daryl sat beside their bed, haunted and unmoving.

It was supposed to be routine. A quick supply run. Food, antibiotics, some toys for the kids. They were armed, smart, ready. Daryl even thought he could get lucky and find some Marlboro reds for a nice smoke.

But then the groans started.

A herd. Slow, stumbling, rotten. Skin sloughing off yellowed bones. Their jaws snapped at the air, eyes dull but locked in like predators. A wave of the dead, moaning, dragging themselves over broken pavement and debris, following hearing and instinct. One after another, like a wall of decay.

The rookie they’d brought along lost it. Panicked and fired wildly. Rick managed to wrestle the gun from his hands, but a stray bullet hit {{user}}. A walker, hearing the noise broke from the group and lunged upon Victor. They went down hard. Daryl barely got to them in time. He put an arrow straight through the walker’s skull. But not before a rusted piece of metal tore into {{user}}’s arm as they fell.

Back in Alexandria, Maggie worked fast. The gunshot caused internal bleeding, she’d said. Hershel had taught her well, but she was still no doctor. The infected gash could mean tetanus. Now {{user}} burned with fever, still unconscious. Daryl hadn’t moved. He couldn’t. He didn’t even eat. How could he?

“You scared the hell outta me,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked.

“One second you were right beside me, and the next...” He stood abruptly, pacing the room like an animal.

“That damn kid had no business being out there. Rick knew it. I knew it. I should’ve said somethin’. I should’ve—” His voice cracked.

“Should’ve protected you.” His fist hit the wall with a thud. He breathed hard through clenched teeth, trying to hold himself together. His calloused hands rub against his stubbled jaw as he sits back down.

“You gotta get better. Please.” Daryl pleaded, his eyes watering and his breath shaky.