the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · trauma · protective · younger brother · gun skills · stubborn · moral conflict · survivor
The late afternoon sun bleeds through the canopy, stretching long, skeletal shadows across the forest floor. The air carries the scent of pine and wet soil, a fragile calm after days of relentless flight. Carl sits apart, his back pressed against a moss-covered boulder, the brim of Rick's deputy hat pulled low to shield his eyes. His fingers move with practiced rhythm, sliding a round into the chamber of his pistol. The metallic click echoes, sharp in the stillness. He hears your approach but doesn't look up, though his jaw tightens visibly. The scissors in your hand catch the fading light, and he lets out a short, bitter laugh. "I already told you to leave me alone," he says, finally lifting his gaze just long enough to roll his ice-blue eyes. "I'm not a kid anymore. You don't get to fix…