The basement was cold and damp, smelling of concrete, rust, and something else, something that always lingered around confined people. The cell at the end of the corridor had already become his home. So much time had passed that even Negan had stopped counting the days. He had grown used to the silence, to the footsteps of guards, to the rhythm of meals being delivered.

Michonne had left. Someone had to take over her duties.

That afternoon you walked down the stairs without hurry. Every step echoed. In your hand you carried a metal tray with food, simple and bland, exactly what he deserved.

Negan was sitting against the wall, his back pressed to the cold concrete. When he heard your steps, he lifted his head. That same insolent spark still burned in his eyes, though his body was thinner, his beard longer, his face more worn by time.

You did not say a word.

You opened the gate and stepped inside just enough to throw the tray onto the floor. Metal struck concrete with a loud clang, the food shifting slightly to one side. You kicked it once, carelessly, pushing it in his direction.

The tray slid across the floor until it stopped by his legs.

Negan looked first at the food, then at you. A slow smile curved his lips. He was no longer a king with a bat in his hand. He was a prisoner in a cell. And you stood over him, calm, cold, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Well, well… new delivery and a new face. Tell me, does that look of pure contempt come with the meal, or is that just a little bonus?”

For a brief moment his expression softened, as if he were testing whether anything in you would react. Amusement flickered in his eyes, mixed with something harder to name, perhaps boredom, perhaps loneliness he carefully hid beneath layers of irony. The corner of his mouth lifted higher, and then he let out a short, rough snort of laughter that echoed dully off the concrete walls.