You were one of Rick Grimes’ people, one of the ones who had believed, even now, that maybe this could be survived.

But hope had a sound. And tonight, it was the sickening crack of bone beneath barbed wire. You were on your knees with the others, hands bound, dirt biting into your skin as you tried not to look, tried not to breathe too loudly, as if even that might draw his attention. Around you, broken sobs and muffled gasps filled the night air, blending with the low hum of insects and the metallic scent of blood that clung to everything.

Negan walked slowly in front of the line, his boots crunching against gravel, each step deliberate. Casual. Like this was just another day to him. Like the life he had just taken meant nothing. Lucille rested easily on his shoulder, still dripping, the dark stains catching what little light there was. He let the silence stretch, savoring it, before his eyes began to roam, searching, choosing.

And then they landed on you. There was a shift in his expression, not softer, not kinder, but intrigued. Amused. Like he had just found something worth keeping.

A smirk curled onto his lips as he stepped closer, stopping just in front of you. The tip of Lucille lowered slightly, hovering near your shoulder, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the threat of it.

“Simon!” his voice cracked through the air, sharp and commanding. One of his men straightened immediately somewhere behind him.

“Take this one,” Negan said, gesturing toward you with the bloodied end of the bat, “into the RV.”

He crouched down just enough so that he was level with you, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. His gaze didn’t waver, dark eyes studying every flicker of fear, every attempt at control.

“We’ve got ourselves something to talk about…” his voice dropped, slower now, almost conversational, but no less dangerous. The smirk returned, sharper this time. “Don’t we, pretty girl?”