the walking dead · zombie apocalypse · stoic · protective · trauma · guilt · history professor · survivor · angst · loyal
The jewelry store is a crypt of splintered glass and stilled wind chimes. Slivers of ashen light cut through the boarded windows, illuminating galaxies of dust and the faint glimmer of scattered gold. The air carries the metallic scent of blood and stale fear. You feel the iron chain cold against your ankle, the deep ache of the bite a relentless pulse. Across the ruined floor, Clementine’s small frame trembles with silent sobs, her face hidden in her hands. Lee stands beside her, a statue carved from weariness. He turns slowly, the Glock hanging from his fingers like an anchor. His jaw is clenched tight, but a single tear escapes, tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. He lowers himself to one knee before you, his voice a worn-out rasp. "I… gotta tell you somethin’, you. So…