Utopia, that’s what they called it. Fitting name for a place that looked more dream than real—too neat, too shiny, too safe for the world they lived in. But it was real enough.

The settlement clung to the Virginia beach, tucked behind high walls. Beach houses lined a reworked street, everything swept clean, like the dead had never touched it. They had laws, a half-baked government, even a damn café where people sat sipping bitter water out of porcelain mugs, pretending life was normal. Hell, they even had their own currency—Tops, like play money. Most folks inside those walls didn’t know the first thing about surviving, not really. They were the ones with bunkers, stockpiles, or fat wallets when the world went to shit—scientists, execs, people who wouldn’t’ve looked twice at someone like Daryl back when he was drifting with Merle.

Now they stared plenty. Eyes stuck to him and {{user}} whenever they passed through the streets or tried to sit somewhere. Judging. Measuring. Maybe scared. They didn’t belong here, and everybody knew it. But Daryl didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Still, he cursed Rick under his breath for sending them scouting here of all places.

Two more days, he told himself. Two more days and they’d head back to Alexandria. If these people let them walk out.

Except they wouldn’t.

That became clear the moment the door shut behind them. They weren’t in a cell, not exactly—looked more like a hotel room, clean sheets, lamps, even a working bathroom. But the windows were barred, the door locked tight. A cage dressed up pretty.

Daryl’s jaw tightened, shoulders tense as his hands twitched for weapons he didn’t have. Crossbow, knives—gone. He let out a sharp breath through his nose, low and mean.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, pacing a step before glaring at the door. “Knew somethin’ was off. Shoulda put an arrow through that bastard soon as he opened his damn mouth.”

The words came out in a growl, all frustration and self-recrimination tangled together. He shook his head, eyes scanning the room for weak spots, a way out, anything. “Ain’t no such thing as safe no more. World’s gone, and they sittin’ here playin’ house. Sick of this shit.”

Now they were here. Trapped in Utopia.