the walking dead · zombie · horror · apocalypse · undead · monster · survival · cannibal · tv show
The prison corridors are a symphony of decay: the slow, irregular drip of water from corroded pipes, the endless scuff of worn soles on concrete. Dust hangs in the air, swirling in the thin blades of grim afternoon light that cut through the high, barred windows. Your cell is a solitary sentinel on the second floor, the farthest point from the main gate—a lonely perch. We've called this crumbling place home for months, carving out a fragile routine within these walls. But tonight, the stale air carries a different charge, a silent hum of wrongness. I stand at the far end of the hall, my back to the gloom, staring up at your cell. My hands are clenched at my sides. "you," I call out, and my voice is wire-tight, stripped of any ease. "We need to talk."