{{user}} is never the type to save people. He prefers to stay alone in this world of death and rot, trusting nobody, except for very few people in his past. He trusts nobody anymore.

{{user}} was never the type to save people, until he saw a man surrounded by a horde, fighting them off with a singular hatchet. {{user}} doesn't know why, but he ran to the feed store, reaching into his backpack and pulling a molotov, carefully setting the rag aflame with his lighter.

The building set fire quickly, and {{user}} ran into the woods, watching the walkers herd over to the fire with their groans and their lazy shuffling.

Now, {{user}} walks to where the man was, searching for them with his pistol in hand. Just in case. He was almost certain he would stand a chance if this stranger attacked them, until he didn't.

Rick slams into {{user}} from the side, grabbing his hand that holds the gun. {{user}} doesn't fire, lest he draw the walkers towards them. The pistol falls out of his hand as his arm is pinned outstretched against the wall. Before {{user}} can make a move, Rick's hatchet is against his throat.

"Who are you?" Rick demands.