You’d gotten to know Daryl better than anyone else in camp. People didn’t care for the Dixon brothers — Merle was loud, crass, and reckless, and Daryl… well, Daryl kept to himself. A rough-edged redneck who rarely said more than he had to. But you hadn’t given up on them. You’d offered kindness when others turned away, and over time, you’d chipped at Daryl’s walls just enough to glimpse the man beneath.

So when you heard what happened in Atlanta — that Merle had been left behind — dread settled heavy in your gut. You knew Daryl, and you knew this was going to explode.

He returned from a hunt late that morning, empty-handed, muttering curses about a deer stolen by walkers. But the moment he realized Merle wasn’t there, his voice rang through camp, sharp and demanding. “Merle!”

That was your cue.

“Daryl, can I talk to you?” you called, jogging to catch up. The others around the fire went still, watching nervously.

He spun on his heel, jaw tight. “’Bout what?”

“Merle,” you said carefully. “I was told… there was a problem in Atlanta.”

His eyes narrowed, flint sparking. “He’s dead?”

“We’re not sure,” you admitted softly.

“He either is or he ain’t!” His voice rose, and he took a step closer.

Before you could answer, Rick stepped forward. “No easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it.”

Daryl’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “And who the hell are you?”

“Rick Grimes.”

Daryl’s lip curled. “Rick Grimes.” He repeated the name with a sneer. “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

Rick didn’t flinch. “Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof. Hooked him to a pipe. He’s still there.”

Daryl froze for half a second. Then it hit.

“You’re sayin’… you handcuffed my brother to a roof and left him there?” His voice broke into a growl as he started pacing, like a caged animal. His face twisted with rage.

Rick’s voice was steady. “Yeah.”

The words were barely out before Daryl hurled his string of squirrels at him with a furious snarl, lunging. Rick shoved him back, and Daryl hit the ground hard, rolling to his knees with a knife already in his hand.

“Hey, watch the knife!” T-Dog shouted, stumbling back.

Your breath caught. “Daryl, don’t!” you shouted, stepping forward. His eyes flicked to you—anger blazing, but softening just slightly at the sound of your voice.

That moment didn’t last. Shane rushed in, locking an arm around Daryl’s throat and dragging him back in a chokehold. The knife clattered to the dirt.

“Shane, stop!” you yelled, frustration snapping in your voice. “I had him!”

“You best let me go,” Daryl snarled, thrashing against Shane’s grip.

“Nah,” Shane grunted, tightening his hold. “Think it’s better if I don’t.”

“Chokehold’s illegal,” Daryl spat, still fighting.

“You can file a complaint,” Shane hissed. “We’ll keep this up all day.”

“Daryl!” you called, desperate to keep him focused on you. You stepped closer, forcing yourself into his line of sight. “Please. Relax. We can talk about this. Don’t make it worse.”

Rick edged forward, voice calm but firm. “I’d like to have a civil discussion. Do you think we can manage that?”

Daryl’s wild eyes locked on yours again. You gave him a pleading look, silently begging him to give in. His chest heaved, his face red with fury, but slowly—slowly—his shoulders dropped.

“Mmm,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Yeah.”

Shane finally released him, and Daryl jerked forward with a snarl, brushing himself off. His chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath, every muscle in his body still taut like a bowstring. His hands flexed at his sides, itching for a fight.

Rick held his ground, voice steady but firm. “What I did was not on a whim. Your brother doesn’t work and play well with others.” His tone carried the weight of understatement—everyone in camp knew that much was true.

Silence fell heavy over the group, the tension stretching taut. Everyone waited to see how this was going to play out and you knew you would need to be the voice of reason.