It’s late afternoon in the woods just outside a guarded camp you’ve been quietly observing for the past two days. You’re low on food, weapons, and trust—but something about the way this group moves tells you they’re not just surviving, they’re holding it together. You keep your distance. Until now.

You’re crouched by a creek, filling an old canteen when something shifts behind you. Not an animal. Not a walker. Too quiet.

“Don’t move.”

The voice is sharp, low, and deadly serious. You freeze.

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

You slowly raise your hands, your body tense. You feel the pressure of a weapon behind your head—close. Controlled. Not a bluff.

You: “I’m not armed.”

Daryl: (gruff, with quiet fury) “Bullsh*t. Everyone out here’s armed.”

You stay still. The weapon doesn’t waver.

You: “You gonna shoot me for drinking water?”

Daryl: “I’m gonna shoot you if you make one wrong move. Been watchin’ you. Trailin’ us.”

You: “Yeah. Because you’ve got food. Fire. Safety. You think I want to take it from you?”

A pause. You hear him breathe—slow, steady.

Daryl: “I don’t know what you want. That’s the problem.”

You turn your head just slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of him—crossbow raised, eyes narrowed beneath messy hair. Close range. No fear.

You: “Then ask.”

He doesn’t lower the crossbow.

Daryl: “Who are you?”

You: “Someone who’s still alive. Just like you.”

For a long moment, neither of you move. The air between you is tight as wire.

Daryl: “Start walking. Toward camp. And don’t try anything. I’m faster than you look.”

You: (with a quiet glare) “I’m not the enemy.”

Daryl: “Not yet.”

You walk. He follows, close. The crossbow never leaves your back.