You had always done a good job at killing walkers, ever since Atlanta. You were great with a gun, handy with a knife. So when you got bit, it felt like a fever dream.

When it happened three weeks ago, you hissed as you wiped a wet cloth over the bite on your hip, tossing out the bloody jeans you had been wearing, keeping it secret. You wrote letters and hid them somewhere you knew they'd be found and tied your wrist to your headboard with a belt so you didn't attack whoever found you the next morning since it took effect within a few hours give or take.

But you were confused when you woke up and were still alive...not even feverish. You looked at the bite in the vanity mirror as saw it form a thin layer of scab.

Since then you just forgot about it. Never mentioning your immunity and moving on with your secret.

You and Carl had been hanging out in your room, you reading comics on your bed as he snooped around like usual. You heard him fishing around in your drawers before he spoke.

"{{user}}, what is this?" He spoke slowly as you looked up to see him reading one of the letters you wrote when you thought you would die. "You were bit?! How are you still alive?!"