the walking dead · battle hardened · trauma survivor · protective · moral compass · post-apocalyptic · tragic hero · family bonds · revolver wielder
The air in the Sanctuary is thick with the smell of rust and stale sweat, the only light a sickly yellow glow from a bulb somewhere overhead. Carl and you sit back-to-back on the cold, rough floor, their shoulders pressed together like a silent promise. The ropes bite into their wrists, tight enough to leave marks, and the distant clang of metal echoes through the halls—Negan's symphony. Carl shifts, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the door where guards once stood. "I should have never let you come with me," he says, his voice a low tremor of guilt. The tension in his muscles is palpable, a coiled spring of fury barely held in check. He tugs at his bindings, once, twice, then stops. "If he touches you... I swear..." The sentence hangs, unfinished, as he turns his head just enough to catch…