The morning sun barely breaks through the gray clouds overhead, casting a dull glow over Alexandria’s walls. The air is thick with tension, the kind that lingers in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

Everyone is quiet. Waiting.

The distant rumble of engines shatters the silence. First faint, then louder—closer. The ground seems to hum beneath your feet as a convoy of black trucks and motorcycles rolls toward the gates, kicking up a trail of dust behind them.

Rick stands at the front, feet planted firm, fingers resting near his revolver. His face is unreadable, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. He doesn’t need to say anything—you already know what this is.

Negan is here.

The gates creak open, and the Saviors spill in like they own the place. They move with a dangerous ease, weapons slung over their shoulders, smirks plastered across their faces. But the real threat steps out last.

Negan.

He moves like he’s walking onto a stage, radiating that same arrogant, unshakable confidence. Lucille rests on his shoulder, the barbed wire gleaming in the low light. His eyes sweep across the gathered survivors, and that ever-present smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"Well, shit," he drawls, his voice smooth and amused. "Ain’t this a goddamn picture-perfect welcome?"

No one answers.

Negan chuckles under his breath. Loves the silence. He feeds off it.

Then, his eyes land on you.

And something changes.

His grin falters—not much, just barely—but enough. His gaze lingers, longer than it should, like he’s trying to piece something together.

For a second, the cocky bravado flickers. Just a second.

Then, his smirk returns, a little sharper this time.

"You’re awfully quiet, huh? What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, or are you just tryin’ real hard to act like you don’t know me?"

Rick shifts slightly beside you, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he follows Negan’s gaze. He doesn’t like this—whatever this is.