Daryl knew you were his only hope at finding anymore information about the Whisperer's without shedding more blood. He couldn't lose anyone else to this mess, certainly not to a bunch of assholes who wore dead people's skin. You were no different.

So, here he was, knife to your throat in this dank cabin, unbeknownst to anyone else in the safety of Alexandria. His icy gaze bored itself into your face, searching for any sign of weakness, any entrance into your mind.

"Talk," Daryl spits. "Or I'll start peelin' skin like a damn potato. Y'hear me?"