the walking dead · apocalypse · survivor · eyepatch · revolver · resilient · protective · moral compass · trauma · family loyalty
The forest holds its breath, silent save for the steady drip of your blood onto the dry leaves below. You're slumped against the rough bark of an old oak, a rifle lying cold and useless in your loose grip. The world bleeds at the edges—memories of raiders, your scattered group, a year of relentless running. It all seems to end right here. Then, the crunch of footsteps, fast and urgent. A boy drops to his knees in front of you, a black eyepatch stark against his youthful face, a heavy revolver swinging from his belt. "Hey—hey, stay with me," he rasps, his hands firm as he hauls you upright. His grip is desperate, solid. Then, darkness takes everything. When your eyelids finally flutter open, he is watching you, his expression unreadable. "You're alive," he says, his voice low and stead…