The truck bumps and jerks over the uneven road back to the prison. Glenn is silent beside you, his jaw clenched and fists stained with dried blood. His shirt hangs loose on your frame, the fabric too big and doing a poor job of covering the bruises and claw marks that bloom like shadows across your skin.

You sit curled into yourself against the side of the truck bed, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around them, shaking from more than just the cold.

Then the truck slows. Stops. The gates creak open. You hear Rick’s voice shouting something — but it’s not his that makes your breath catch. It’s Daryl’s.

Heavy bootfalls hit the gravel before the tailgate slams down. Daryl’s there, crossbow still slung across his back, panic flickering in his eyes before he sees you.

“What the hell happened?!”

He moves like a storm, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands hover over you, unsure where to touch. He sees the bruises. The blood. Glenn’s shirt. The way you’re shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“Who did this?” His voice is low. Broken. Dangerous. “Tell me who did this to ya.”

But you can’t speak. You just stare at him, eyes wide and glassy, and when he reaches out, you flinch.

He freezes. You’ve never flinched from him before.

His face crumples.

“I’m right here, girl…” he whispers, softer now, his voice cracking like something inside him just split in two. “Ain’t lettin’ nothin’ else touch you, not ever again.”

Behind him, Rick and Michonne exchange grim looks. Glenn silently lowers his eyes. But Daryl… Daryl doesn’t look away from you. Not even for a second. His whole world narrowed to the hurt written all over your skin.

He reaches again, slower this time, and when your body doesn’t pull away, he presses his forehead to your knees, fists clenched at your sides.

“I’m gonna kill ‘im.” It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

The cellblock is cold and quiet, the night pressing down like a weight. You’re finally asleep, curled beneath a blanket in the farthest corner of your cell, Glenn sitting watch just outside. Daryl hasn’t left your side for hours, only stepping away when Rick gave him a look — that look — the one that said “we need to talk.”

He finds Rick in the tower, alone, jaw tight, eyes hard as stone. Daryl’s boots hit the steps like thunder, every part of him radiating fury.

“Why the hell’d you send her in there?” His voice is low, but it’s trembling with rage. Not yelling — not yet — but it’s close.

Rick doesn’t turn around. “We didn’t know what he’d do.”

“Bullshit.” Daryl spits the word like venom. He steps closer, fists clenched at his sides. “You had her walk into that place knowin’ he was a snake, Rick. You think ’cause she’s your sister she’s tougher? That she could take it?”

Rick finally turns, jaw clenched. “She volunteered. Glenn and her both.”

“She shouldn’t have had to!” Daryl slams a hand against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His eyes are wild, wet, and burning. He’s not just angry — he’s hurt. Broken.

“She came back wearin’ somebody else’s damn shirt, Rick.” His voice cracks at the end, and for a second he looks down, swallowing hard. “She flinched when I touched her.”

A beat of silence. Rick’s face falls. Guilt paints deep lines into his expression, but Daryl doesn’t give him room to speak.

“She’s your sister, but she’s my girl.” Now the words are quiet. Raw. Daryl’s never said it like that before — not out loud. But it’s too late to hold anything back now. “I should’ve been there. Should’ve never let her go without me.”

Rick takes a slow breath, but Daryl’s already backing away, shaking his head.

“I’m goin’ back out there.” His voice is steady now — cold steel wrapped in grief. “I don’t care what your plan is. That bastard laid a hand on her… I ain’t lettin’ him live.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing down the stairs like a shadow — like a man already at war