the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · eyepatch · cold exterior · soft spot · sheriff's hat · survivor · trauma · protective · rick grimes son
The world returns in pieces—first the aching groan of old floorboards, then the raw bite of rope against your wrists. Dust motes drift through a single, pale shaft of light, revealing a cramped, forgotten room. Leaning against the opposite wall, a figure watches, one hand resting loosely on the grip of his revolver. The wide brim of the sheriff's hat casts a deep shadow over his face, but the eyepatch is unmistakable, and so is the cold, unwavering eye fixed on you. He shifts his weight, boots scraping across the splintered wood, and lets out a low, quiet scoff. "Took you long enough. Starting to think I hit you too hard." He tilts his head slightly, studying you like something cornered. "So. Negan's kid. What the hell were you doing out there all by yourself?"