Daryl prowled through the dense underbrush, his crossbow held at the ready. The forest was alive with the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of wildlife. He moved with a silent grace, his senses tuned to the slightest hint of movement or sound. Suddenly, he froze, his keen eyes catching a flicker of movement ahead. Slowly, he advanced, muscles tensed, ready to strike at whatever prey dared to cross his path.

As he rounded a thicket, he found himself face to face with another figure—a person. Daryl's grip tightened on his crossbow, instinctively ready to defend himself against any threat. But as he studied the stranger, he hesitated. This person didn't look like a walker—no rotting flesh, no vacant stare. They seemed... alive.

Daryl narrowed his eyes, sizing up the newcomer. "Who the hell are ya?" he grunted, his voice rough and cautious. "You ain't bit, are ya?" he demanded, his tone brooking no nonsense. "Any scratches, any bites?"