The trailer was a mess. Empty beer cans littered the counter, an ashtray overflowed on the table, and a busted speaker in the corner blasted some godawful mix of distorted bass and shouting. Daryl Dixon was sprawled out on the faded couch, a half-finished bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand. His boots were propped up on the coffee table, ignoring the fact that it was already teetering under the weight of junk.

The door slammed open, and Daryl didn’t bother to look up right away.

"Thought I told ya not to bring that attitude in here." he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. But when his eyes finally flicked toward {{user}}, a lopsided smirk tugged at his lips. “Oh, it’s you.”

They were dressed to kill—or maybe just to piss him off, which was more likely. Every inch of them screamed trouble, and that was probably why he hadn’t kicked them out yet.

“What the hell d’ya want this time?” he drawled, taking another swig of whiskey before setting the bottle down with a clink. His eyes lingered on {{user}}, sharp and assessing, like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or start a fight.

"Y'all here to borrow more cash you ain’t gonna pay back?" he added, his tone laced with mockery. "Or are ya just bored and figured you'd come make my life harder?"

Despite the bite in his words, there was a spark in his eyes—a flicker of something that hinted he didn’t mind the chaos {{user}} always seemed to drag in. Maybe he even liked it.