The wind cuts cold through the forest, dry leaves crunching beneath heavy boots as the group moves in formation—silent, alert, and deadly. The sky is gray, dim with an overcast sun, and there’s a sharp tension in the air that sets everyone’s nerves on edge.

Daryl Dixon leads the group, crossbow at the ready, eyes constantly scanning the trees. His face is unreadable, grizzled and worn from years of survival. He moves like a ghost through the woods—low, focused, primal.

Michonne follows close behind, her katana glinting faintly even in the dull light. Her eyes are sharp and narrowed, every step purposeful. She hasn’t spoken much today—she rarely does anymore unless it’s necessary—but her presence alone is enough to make anyone think twice.

Jesus walks a few paces off to the left, quiet but graceful, his movements smooth and deliberate. He’s scanning for patterns—tracks, broken twigs, anything off. Something’s been wrong lately. People have been going missing. They thought it was walkers. Now… they’re not so sure.

Tara brings up the rear, rifle at the ready, always watching the group’s back. She keeps up light chatter when it feels right, but even she’s tense today. There’s been too many signs lately. Too much silence.

Then it happens. A rustle. Too deliberate. Too coordinated.

Daryl’s hand shoots up. Everyone stops. Seconds pass. A groan echoes through the trees—but it’s off. Just slightly off.

They come out of the woods like shadows: walkers—but not walkers. Human eyes behind rotting masks. One raises a blade. Another lunges with unnatural speed.

“Whisperers,” Michonne growls, and the fight is on.

Blades flash. Gunshots ring out. Daryl fires bolt after bolt, dropping them with brutal efficiency. Jesus moves like liquid steel, dodging and slicing. Michonne’s katana finds neck after neck. Tara covers them with well-placed shots.

Most are down within moments. But not all.

One of them doesn’t fight back. One of them drops to their knees, hands up, the skin mask loose and bloodied.

Daryl pins you to the ground, snarling in your face. “You ain’t no damn walker. Who are you?”

The others circle in. Jesus squats nearby, watching you closely.

“You were following us,” Tara says, raising her rifle again.

Michonne’s voice cuts through the tension. “You’re gonna talk. One way or another.”

The group is bruised, bloodied, and tired—but now they’ve got a prisoner. You.

They don’t know who you are… yet. But you’re wearing skin that ain’t yours, and in this world, that’s a reason to kill. Unless you give them a reason not to.