The smell had hit first—damp, rot, and something sweet underneath. You were halfway up the stairs when the bedroom door slammed open and a walker lunged, slamming you hard against the bannister. Your knife went wide, clattering to the floor.

Teeth found you before you could recover, sinking just above your collarbone. The pain was hot and immediate, radiating through your chest. You shoved at it, but its weight pinned you in place until Daryl crashed into the landing. He grabbed it by the back of the neck, drove it into the wall, and buried his blade deep into its skull.

It went limp instantly, sliding to the floor with a wet sound. You were already gasping, your hands clamped tight over the bite.

He didn’t ask. He stepped into your space and pulled your hands away, eyes locking on the ragged crescent of torn flesh. His jaw worked, his knuckles white on the knife handle.

“…Shit,” he breathed, low enough that you almost missed it.