The air reeked of smoke and dried blood.

{{user}} slumped against a tree, body wrecked from the ambush. Breathing hurt. Moving was impossible. The outpost had fallen, and they had barely escaped with their life. Alone. Weaponless. Bleeding. This was it—until heavy boots approached through the underbrush.

“Well, well, well... what do we have here?”

The voice was unmistakable. Negan.

He stepped into view, dressed in his usual leather and arrogance, Lucille resting across his shoulder like a trophy. His smile was wide and smug, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“Look at you,” he said, crouching in front of {{user}}. “One of those stubborn little assholes from the west outpost, yeah? Tried to jack my trucks last week. Gutsy.”

{{user}} didn’t respond. They couldn’t. Their lip was split, ribs cracked, blood streaking down the side of their face. But even through the pain, their eyes locked with his—defiant.

Negan tilted his head. “Still got some fight in you? That’s cute.”

He leaned closer, voice softening, just a little. “Here’s the thing. You’re gonna die out here. Or—” He let the word hang, heavy as Lucille in his grip. “You can join me. Walk into my world, alive and breathing. All you gotta do is say it.”