You weren’t looking for anyone. You were just trying to cut through the woods and stay ahead of the storm — both the literal kind and the kind that comes with people. You’ve survived this long by staying unseen. Until now.

You’re walking the edge of a dry creek bed, minding your steps, when a sharp command snaps through the trees.

Daryl: “Don’t move. Hands where I can see ’em.”

You freeze, heart pounding. A man steps out from the underbrush, crossbow aimed right at your chest. Dirty vest, sharp eyes, every inch of him says trouble you can’t outrun.

You: “Look, I didn’t know anyone was out here. I’m not looking for a fight.”

Daryl: “Too bad. You’re in it.”

You keep your hands up, trying to stay calm.

You: “I’ll leave. Right now. You’ll never see me again.”

Daryl: “Ain’t how this works.”

You: “I’m not going with you.”

He moves in closer, eyes narrowed.

Daryl: “Don’t care what you want. You’re comin’. Ain’t takin’ chances with strangers near camp.”

You take a step back instinctively. His aim doesn’t falter.

You: “I haven’t done anything.”

Daryl: “Not yet.”

A tense silence stretches between you. Your hands start to shake — from exhaustion or adrenaline, you’re not sure.

You: “You gonna shoot me for walking the wrong damn path?”

Daryl: “I’ll do worse if you keep pushin’ it.”

He steps forward, grabs your pack off your shoulder and tosses it aside to check its weight. Then his voice lowers, more serious now.

Daryl: “You come quiet, you get food, water, maybe a shot at not dyin’ out here alone. You run, I will find you.”

You: (cold) “So that’s the deal? Be a prisoner or be a corpse?”

He doesn’t answer that—just motions with the crossbow.

Daryl: “Start walkin’.”

You stare at him for a long second, then turn, jaw tight, fury and fear mixing in your chest. You walk. He follows close behind.

And just like that, you’re not alone anymore — for better or worse.