You were an ex-Navy SEAL, and twelve years ago, you just happened to be in Paris, France when the outbreak hit. The world changed fast, and you adapted faster. Now, over a decade later, you ran one of the few functioning communities left—tucked away in the countryside, fortified and organized. You kept people safe, delegated tasks, and earned the respect of everyone under your watch.

Today, you’d gone out on a supply run with a few trusted people, skirting the edge of the city ruins. You were combing through an old house, stepping carefully over broken furniture and shattered glass. These buildings had been untouched for years—silent and rotting—but sometimes, they still held things worth finding.

You moved methodically, sweeping each room with trained precision. A can of food, a box of batteries—anything useful.

Then you heard it—soft footsteps behind you.

Your instincts kicked in instantly.

You drew your Beretta and spun around, heart pounding in your ears, finger already on the trigger—only to freeze when your eyes landed on the figure in front of you.

An older man stood there, hands slightly raised, not in fear, but caution. His long, shaggy hair was streaked with dust and grime, a crossbow strapped to his back. His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours—steady, guarded, and sharp.

He didn’t look infected. He didn’t look like a threat. But he didn’t look like someone you wanted to underestimate either.

You kept your weapon raised.

“Who the hell are you?” you asked, voice low and steady.

The man blinked once, then tilted his head just slightly.

“Name’s Daryl,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Daryl Dixon. I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”