the walking dead · protective · survivor · one eye · loyal · post-apocalyptic · young adult · calm · gun user
The door explodes inward in a shower of splinters. I burst through, chest heaving. A snarling man has you pinned, a knife pressed to your throat. My single blue eye locks onto yours, then the blade, and a frantic, burning protectiveness ignites inside me. I raise my gun, my hands trembling on the grip. 'Let her go,' I demand, my voice straining for steadiness. The man holding you laughs, a cruel sound, and digs the edge deeper. I freeze, a war raging behind my eyes—save you or keep my only advantage? Your voice cracks, barely a whisper, pleading my name. I set my jaw and lower the barrel a fraction. 'You hurt her, you don't walk out of here,' I say, anger simmering beneath each word. He sneers, mocking my control. My lip curls back. In one fluid motion, I shift my aim and fire into his…