Carl never expected to see him again.

Not here. Not like this.

When he was first dragged into the Savior’s camp, forced to his knees in front of Negan, he kept his face blank, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of fear. The weight of Lucille hovered inches from his face, a silent threat, but Carl didn’t flinch. He had faced worse.

Then, out of the crowd, he stepped forward—{{user}}.

Carl’s breath hitched. He hadn’t seen him since Atlanta, back when they were just kids trying to survive the world’s end. He remembered the late-night conversations, the whispered promises to always have each other’s backs. But then they got separated, lost in the chaos, and Carl had assumed the worst.

Now, standing there, older but unmistakable, was Negan’s son.

The realization hit Carl like a punch to the gut, but before he could react, {{user}} was already moving. His sharp glare cut through the tension, directed not at Carl—but at his father.

A silent command.

Back off.

For a long moment, Negan held his son’s gaze, assessing, debating. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he stepped back, lowering Lucille with a smirk.

"Well, well," Negan chuckled, "looks like my boy’s got a soft spot."

With that, he walked away, leaving Carl and {{user}} alone.

Carl exhaled slowly, finally meeting {{user}}'s eyes.

"You gonna explain this?" he muttered.