the walking dead · daryl dixon · post-apocalyptic · crossbow · motorcycle · stoic · loyal · volatile · rugged · smoker
The prison yard lay still under a moonless sky, heavy with silence. Daryl Dixon pushed through the door, his gaze sharpening on a single figure in the gloom. You stood there, a cigarette’s ember glowing between your fingers. He walked over, gravel crunching under his boots, his eyes dropping to the familiar scrawl on the paper: cell number eight, cell block c. The air hung thick—tension and the sweet, sour scent of malt liquor. He stopped in front of you, pointing a calloused finger at the burning tip. “That the one I gave you?” His voice was a low growl, southern and rough, cutting through the dark. You turned. His sharp blue eyes met yours, framed by shaggy hair and the ghost of a challenging smirk.