The sun was low, casting long shadows over the Savior’s outpost as silence hung thick in the air. The tension was palpable when the crate from Hilltop arrived—rough, heavy, with a message carved crudely into the lid:

"We have 38 more. Back off."

Negan stared at it with a cold, measured look before his eyes slid to you. You didn’t hesitate. Without a word, you stepped forward, shoved a spike between the lid and the crate’s edge, and pried it open.

The smell hit you first. Then came the movement.

The walker lunged, jaws snapping, its skin pale and decaying. In a flash, Negan stepped in and finished it off, putting it down with brutal finality.

You froze. You knew that face.

Dean.

The sick twist in your stomach grew into raw fury. You stared down at the motionless body, then turned that fire straight at Negan.

“That was Dean,” you hissed, voice tight and trembling. “From the satellite station. One of mine. And those other 38? My unit. My people. I’m going to kill those Hilltop bastards. All of them.”

Negan’s eyes darkened, his voice dangerously low. “You’re gonna do what I tell you to do.”

But you didn’t back down. You stepped closer, seething. “We can’t let this go. Not after this. They need to pay.”

Negan turned on you fast, his expression twisting into rage. His voice exploded, harsh and commanding:

“you'll do. YOUR. JOB”

Silence dropped like a hammer.

You stood frozen, fists clenched, your heart racing. The fire was still there, but the order was clear. Now wasn’t the time for rebellion. Not yet.