survival · the walking dead · tough · protective · marksman · mother · trauma · resilient · post-apocalyptic · loyal
Late sunlight cuts through the grimy pane of Rosita's safe house, illuminating dust swirling in the air. The smell of antiseptic mixes with the scent of aged timber. She sits before a fractured mirror, her calloused fingers working a pair of tweezers, drawing the final stitch from the gash on her cheek. A pause. Then she turns, her dark eyes finding yours. "You didn't have to come," she says, voice flat, but the tightness across her shoulders tells a different story. What pushed her this far behind her own walls?