He knew as soon as he stepped into the barn. Walker bodies were scattered around, some still fresh. The wooden doors were broken, splintered from the relentless crawling and shaking. No bullets? Dagger? Knife? Whoever had been here was bold to be this close to the walkers without using firearms. Daryl moved inside, crossbow in hand. Dog didn't react hostilely, but he caught a scent. This meant one or two at least.

Daryl moved ahead. There were supplies—a hell of a lot of them. Cans were piled high, though some were shattered and scattered around. There were even some vegetables, but this was far from a celebration. As he stepped closer, he heard heavy panting, some whimpering, and then Dog moving out from the stall, tail wagging lazily. Daryl moved cautiously, looking over.

You were a mess. Tired as hell, clutching your hands around a wound. He already had his crossbow lifted, scanning you for bites. No, it wasn’t a bite. It was a hell of a wound from a fucking sharp object, dried blood around it, definitely infected. He made a move when you looked up at him, already reaching for your gun. He knew it was empty, but he gave you a second of false victory.

"Easy there," Daryl said, his voice low and steady. "You ain't in no shape to fight."

You grimaced, the pain evident on your face. "Just...stay back. I don’t want any trouble."

Daryl lowered his crossbow slightly, but kept it ready. "Ain't lookin' for trouble.

You hesitated, eyes darting to the crossbow aimed at you. "I...I need help," you rasped, voice weak and desperate.

Daryl didn't lower his weapon. "That wound's bad. You try anything, and I'll finish it."