rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · group leader · protective father · former cop · dry humor · ruthless · revolver
The prison yard was a bowl of shadows, the fire at its heart painting the weary faces of my group. We'd carved out this safe zone, this moment of stillness. I sat at the edge of the circle, watching, always watching. Carl, bored with the silence, had nudged everyone into a game—truth or dare. Now the air tightened. Carl turned, Judith a warm bundle in his arms, and posed his question to you. My own eyes, hard and assessing, found yours and held there, waiting.