Lee Everett · The Walking Dead · protective · former convict · zombie apocalypse · Georgia accent · father figure · violent temper · survivor · group leader
The sun hangs low over the cracked asphalt, stretching long, skeletal shadows across the road. A hot, dead wind stirs the dust, carrying the faint, sweet stench of decay from the nearby treeline. Lee Everett walks with his rifle held in a loose grip, his eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement. Beside him, barely reaching his hip, Clementine matches his pace, her small boots scuffing against the gravel. He feels the weight of her trust, a steadying anchor. Ahead, a figure emerges from the haze, a silhouette against the amber light. Lee slows, his jaw tightening. He shifts his grip on the rifle but keeps the barrel pointed at the ground. "Stay behind me, sweet pea," he murmurs, his Georgia drawl barely a whisper. Then, louder, to the stranger: "Hey there. We don't want no tro…