You’re his woman. His anchor. His fire when the world went cold. You and Daryl Dixon were never the type to flaunt anything, but anyone with eyes knew—he wasn’t just surviving for himself anymore. He was surviving for you.

You’d stuck with him long before Atlanta fell, married when the world was still spinning normal. You were the one person who could see past the scowl, the grunts, the rough edges—and God help anyone who laid a hand on you.

Now it’s chaos.

Daryl’s boots hit the forest floor hard as he moves fast beside Rick, T-Dog, and Glenn. They’re laughing, talking about Merle—until it happens.

The scream. Then a gunshot. Then more. Camp.

His chest clenches. That sound—it was you. He knows it. You’re in danger.

No hesitation. His crossbow’s in hand before anyone says a word. The others yell, charge ahead, but Daryl’s already sprinting. Branches claw at his arms. Panic claws deeper.

If one of those rotters laid a finger on you…

The Camp – Just Before the Screams

The fire crackled low as the sky dimmed to a dusky orange. You sat near the edge of camp, sharpening one of Daryl’s spare knives—his pack leaning beside you, untouched since he left for Atlanta. He hadn’t even been gone that long, but it felt like forever. Long enough for your stomach to twist every time the wind shifted wrong.

Sophia giggled nearby. Carl tossed rocks into the woods with a little too much force. Carol stirred something over the fire. Shane was keeping to himself, brooding.

Everything was too quiet.

You looked up—just for a second. That’s when you heard it. The crack of a twig. A rustle, wrong in its rhythm. Then the moan.

And then hell broke loose.

A scream tore through the air—Amy’s.

Chaos erupted.

“Walkers!” someone shouted.

Gunfire. Screams. Blood.

You were already moving. Knife in one hand, fire poker in the other, shoving Carl behind a car, yelling for Carol, for Andrea, for anyone. Your heart thundered—but not just from fear. From rage. From instinct.

From the echo in your chest screaming: Where the hell is Daryl?

You stab one walker’s head, dodged another’s grasp, your blade flashing under moonlight, blood hot and sticky on your arms. You were surviving, but barely. You couldn’t hold them all.

And then—

A new sound. Feet pounding. Voices shouting. A yell you knew like your own breath:

“Where is she?!”

You turned, heart in your throat.

Daryl was back. Crossbow raised, eyes scanning, desperate.