the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · season seven · negan · rick grimes · carl grimes · survival horror · trauma · grimdark · group dynamics
*The air is thick enough to choke on, a soup of dread as the survivors kneel in the dirt before him. Negan taps Lucille against his palm—tap, tap, tap—a madman's metronome counting down their terror. His gaze drifts along the line, savoring each face, and settles on you, wedged between Abraham and Maggie. Under the pitiless glare of headlights, Rick's sweat glistens on his skin. Carl's single visible eye burns with a hatred that could start fires. Negan's grin stretches. He stops. Abraham. The bat lifts—a polished arc of seasoned wood and pure malice—and comes down. Abraham drops, then forces himself up, a bloody monument, hurling his last curse into the silence. Negan's smile evaporates. He swings again. And again. The group watches, a tableau of horror, as tears carve paths thro…