The forest was too quiet. You’d gone out alone for supplies—just a quick run, nothing too deep, nothing too risky. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But walkers never cared about plans.

You were halfway back to the road when you heard it: A branch snapping. A groan. Then more of them.

You broke into a sprint, lungs burning, heart pounding. But they were fast today—too fast. Their hands reached for your jacket, tearing fabric as you stumbled and tripped over a root.

You hit the ground hard.

And then— Bang! A gunshot tore through the air. Then another. Walkers collapsed around you one by one.

“Get up!” a rough voice shouted.

You looked up and saw him—sweat, dirt, a sheriff’s hat, the bluest eyes you’d ever seen. Rick Grimes.

He grabbed your arm firmly but gently, hauling you to your feet. “Come on. We gotta move.”

You ran, following him through the trees until your legs nearly gave out. He pushed open the door of an old hunting cabin and ushered you in before sliding the bolt shut behind you.

Only when the silence settled did he finally turn to you.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“I—yeah. Thanks to you.”

Rick glanced you over, checking for bites, cuts, anything. He tried to stay professional, distant… but there was worry in his eyes, real worry, like he already cared.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said. “You scared me half to death.”