The sweltering Atlanta sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked concrete of the rooftop. Merle Dixon was slumped against a rusted vent, his hands bloodied and raw from his futile struggle against the unforgiving metal cuffs that bound him to the pipe. Sweat dripped down his face, tracing paths through the grime caked on his skin. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and his once-defiant blue eyes darted around the empty rooftop, searching for any sign of salvation—or vengeance.

The world around him was a cacophony of chaos. Below, the guttural groans of walkers mingled with the distant echoes of gunshots and screams. The city was dying, its heartbeat fading into the endless moans of the dead. The stench of decay wafted upward, mixing with the acrid smell of sweat and blood.

Merle clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding as he tugged against the cuffs again, the sharp metal biting into his wrists. "Goddamn fools," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Leavin’ me up here like some kinda dog."

His anger flared, a volatile fire that briefly overshadowed the gnawing fear creeping into his gut. He yanked harder, the sound of metal scraping against metal echoing in the oppressive heat. Blood smeared the pipe as the cuffs dug deeper into his skin, but Merle didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He cast a glance toward the horizon, where the Atlanta skyline shimmered in the haze of the afternoon sun.

For the first time in years, a flicker of desperation crept into Merle’s expression. He wasn’t afraid of much—not of men, not of death—but the thought of dying up here, forgotten and abandoned, twisted his insides into knots. He snarled, shaking his head. "Ain’t goin’ out like this. Ain’t nobody takin’ me out but me."