Carl Grimes stands a few feet away, his figure shrouded in a quiet intensity that seems to stretch the space between you. His hat is tipped low, the brim casting shadows that obscure his eyes, leaving only the sharp curve of his jaw visible. His hair is unkempt, a testament to the constant struggle of survival. There’s something about him, an unspoken weight, as if the world is wearing him down slowly but surely.

He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, his shoulders tense as if ready to move at any moment. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, and when his blue-gray eyes lock onto yours, there’s a guardedness in them—a sort of preemptive defense. It’s not the same boy you used to know; this Carl is older, harder, molded by all that he’s seen.

“What do you want?” he mutters, his voice low, edged with frustration. It’s a question that lingers in the air, more than just a simple inquiry. There’s no outright anger, but something deeper lurks beneath the surface—weariness, perhaps, or the burden of too many losses. The weight of everything he’s been through presses down on him, and you can see it in the way he holds himself, like he’s just waiting for the next thing to go wrong.