Chapter 3 - Smoke and Steel

In Sharpsburg…

Casey and Dylan had managed to gather five walkers. The extra one hadn't been part of the plan—Casey had gone off course for a brief moment and returned with another groaning corpse in tow. Dylan had been pissed, the frustration clear in the way he paced and muttered under his breath. But Casey, calm as ever, had only offered a shrug and said, "Better to have and not need than to need and not have." The quote caught Dylan off guard, disarmed his anger just enough to quiet him. With a resigned sigh, he let it go.

They made it back to the car, the low sun casting long shadows as the sky blushed orange and red. Casey secured the walkers to a nearby pole, the rope taut, their slack-jawed groans muffled by the absence of teeth and the crude restraints. He dropped down onto the sidewalk, the cool cement pressing against him as he pulled a cloth from his jacket and began wiping his Tsurugi. The blade was stained with dark walker blood, some of it dried, some still fresh, clinging stubbornly to the polished steel.

He worked in silence, his movements slow, deliberate. This wasn't just cleaning—it was ritual. A moment to breathe, to clear his mind. Every stroke across the blade steadied his thoughts, dulled the echoes of death that followed them everywhere now. He glanced at Dylan. "Move the car," he said simply. "Get it off the road, away from the village entrance. We can't leave it out in the open."

Dylan, still nursing the remnants of irritation, gave him a look but didn't argue. He understood the logic—hiding the car meant avoiding attention. Fewer eyes meant fewer problems. Dylan wasn't the type to chase down stolen things anyway. If someone took it, it was gone. That was that.

As Dylan walked off toward the vehicle, Casey let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The silence around him settled like dust. He looked at the walkers, mindless and swaying slightly against their bonds, and let his thoughts drift—to the trail they'd taken, the scattered corpses they'd passed on the way in.

The decapitations still haunted him.

Whoever had done that wasn't sloppy. The cuts had been too clean, too precise. These weren't random kills. It was someone who knew what they were doing—someone efficient, calculated. Someone dangerous. The idea that they might still be nearby, maybe even watching from some hidden perch, settled in his gut like a cold stone. He made a mental note, sharp and clear: Be cautious. Be ready.

Then he went back to his blade.

He glanced up at the sky—it had darkened into deep shades of blue and violet, the last slivers of sunlight bleeding out over the horizon. The weight of the growing night made his thoughts drift toward the main group. Were they okay? Had Rick been found? That uncertainty gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.

Slipping a hand into his jacket pocket, Casey pulled out the watch he'd found earlier. It was scratched up, a little dirty, but the small silver lettering still read "Casio." He turned it over in his hand, inspecting the face, the buttons, the tiny grooves in the casing. For a moment he was absorbed in the simple distraction. But interest faded fast. It was just a watch. A relic from a time when minutes and hours actually meant something. He sighed, slipping it back into his pocket, then turned his attention back to his blade.

He had just finished wiping the last streak of dried blood from the edge when Dylan returned, baseball bat slung over his shoulder like a soldier reporting for duty. The younger man gave Casey a look, silent but steady. No words were needed until Casey finally asked, "You remember the plan?"

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. I remember."

With that, Casey stood, his joints popping slightly as he stretched to full height. He reached for the ropes, untying the docile walkers one by one. They groaned softly but didn't resist, their rotted bodies slow, sluggish. The sound of rope sliding free echoed eerily in the open space, punctuated only by distant chirps and rustling leaves.

He drew his Tsurugi and gave Dylan a side glance, his expression hardening.

The plan was simple. Risky, but necessary.

Lure the walkers away from the target area. Distract them. Divert their attention toward something else—noise, motion, bait. It didn't matter what, so long as it gave them the opening they needed.

Casey nodded once. Then together, blade and bat ready, they headed toward the gas station—toward whatever waited beyond the dusk.

If this failed, there'd be no running. No backup plan. Just steel, bone, and resolve.

Casey tightened his grip on the Tsurugi, the blade a silent promise at his side. The edge had tasted enough blood today—fresh and rotten—but it would drink again if it had to. His jaw clenched as he walked, boots crunching against gravel, every step a march into uncertainty.

Beside him, Dylan's bat hung low, but his stance was ready. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between anger and fear, but his silence said more than words ever could. He knew. They both did.

This wasn't just about the gas station. This was about saving a person who reached out to them in a dead world, or maybe it was just to themselves.

And if the plan didn't work? Then they'd make damn sure to go down swinging.

Because in a world gone to hell, survival wasn't just about staying alive. It was about refusing to die easy.

Walkers still loomed at the doors and windows, their rotting hands smeared across cracked glass, groaning in ceaseless hunger. The dying light of day cast long, distorted shadows that danced behind them, making the figures inside appear more like specters than corpses. The building, already silent, now felt like it was holding its breath.

Dusk had settled in like a fog, bleeding the world of its color. Darkness wasn't just coming—it was crawling in, clinging to every surface with a heavy, suffocating weight, wrapping itself around signs, poles, and abandoned vehicles like a child desperate not to be left behind.

The cold air was sharp against the skin, biting and unfriendly. It filled their lungs with an almost sterile chill, a cruel reminder that night was coming fast—and with it, danger. Casey slowed his steps, eyes locked on the swarm that hadn't noticed them yet. Every groan, every scrape of bone on metal, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

By some miracle—or maybe just grim luck—they'd gotten close. Close enough that the moans and groans of the herd ahead formed a wall of sound, an overwhelming chorus of death that masked their every footstep. Each rasping breath, each dragging foot of the undead drowned out the crunch of gravel beneath Casey's boots and the quiet creak of Dylan's tightening grip on the bat.

It was disorienting. The noise wasn't just loud—it was thick. Suffocating. It pressed in on their ears, made it hard to think straight. Like being swallowed whole by a storm of rot and decay. And yet, they kept moving.

Casey's jaw was tight, eyes darting from walker to walker, reading their posture, watching for signs that one might turn. That one might know. But they didn't.

Dylan adjusted his grip on the bat. "This place feels cursed," he whispered.

Casey didn't respond. He was too busy keeping himself alert. The dread thickened around them like fog—silent, heavy, and waiting.

He looked back at Dylan, whose fingers were clenched tightly around the handle of his bat, knuckles bone white, a flicker of unease clouding his eyes despite the mask of resolve he tried to wear. They moved as one, silent but deliberate, the five restrained walkers shuffling in sync beside them like macabre bodyguards. Every step forward was measured, each second stretched taut with tension.

The gas station was still a hive of death. Walkers pressed against the glass and metal, their moans leaking out like steam from a cracked pipe. The scent of decay, fuel, and cold earth hung thick in the air.

Casey stopped just short of the lot, his eyes scanning their surroundings. The sky above them was bruising deeper into a dark indigo, and the failing light warped shapes into shadows that played tricks on the eyes. He inhaled sharply, trying to steady the knot in his gut. Then, he spotted it—a jagged rock resting near the curb, half-buried in gravel.

He crouched, picked it up, and weighed it in his hand. The silence between them was suffocating. With one swift motion, he hurled the stone toward a rusted fuel pump.

CLANG

The sound exploded through the still air, metallic and jarring, like a church bell rung in hell. It cut through the walkers' moans with surgical precision, drawing their attention like moths to flame.

The herd turned, heads snapping toward the noise. Their bodies followed sluggishly, peeling away from the doors and windows, their groans rising in volume as they began shuffling toward the source of the disruption.

Casey gave Dylan a look—sharp, urgent, and full of silent orders.

Don't move.

The walkers, mindless and driven only by instinct, veered past the fuel pump with sluggish determination, their rotting limbs carrying them toward the fading echo as if the sound had a scent they could follow. They didn't hesitate. They didn't look around. They simply moved—driven by the illusion of prey that technically wasn't there.

Casey stood still, raising his Tsurugi, watching with a calculated gaze as the dead shuffled further away, their groans fading like a storm moving off the horizon. The gamble had worked—for now, they luckily didn't have to risk their lives storming through a sea of teeth and rot. The herd, drawn away by the echo of the stone thrown away, had drifted far enough to give them breathing room. It wasn't much, but in this world, even a sliver of safety was a rare and precious thing.

Casey exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders as he scanned the now-accessible entrance to the gas station. The walkers they had 'tamed' stood idly by Dylan, docile as ever, swaying gently like rotting scarecrows in the fading light. He smirked, his eyes drifting sideways to Dylan.

Dylan's expression was frozen in a mix of awe and disbelief. His bat hung loosely at his side, fingers slackening slightly as he tried to process what he'd just witnessed. His brow furrowed and his mouth opened slightly as if to speak, but nothing came out. He glanced at Casey, then back at the direction the walkers were going, and then at the rock near the pump.

"You saw that?" Casey asked quietly, a flicker of amusement in his tone.

Dylan gave a slow nod. "Yeah. I just… I saw it. I can't believe that actually worked. But I don't get it. How the hell didn't they know where the sound came from?"

"They don't think," Casey replied simply, shrugging. "They hear, they move. Nothing more. Just instincts. No brains left to question or second-guess."

Dylan blinked, still processing, let out a low curse under his breath. "Damn. That's a little creepy."

Casey, hearing Dylan's awed words, let his smirk fade. The amusement drained from his face, replaced by something colder—sharper. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the empty space where the herd once loomed.

"No, Dylan," he said quietly, his voice sounding like the blade in his hand sliding from its sheath. "That's very useful."

Dylan blinked, confused at the sudden change in Casey's tone. "What do you mean?"

Casey didn't look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the walkers shuffling near them, their forms half-swallowed by the gloom of the rising moon. "They're not just dumb. They're predictable. We can use that. Noise, motion, scent—it's all programming. All instinct. If we can guide them with the right cues…"

He let the thought hang in the air like smoke.

Dylan looked at him uneasily, the grip on his bat tightening again. "You're thinking about more than just surviving, aren't you?"

Casey's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm thinking about winning."

And with that, he turned toward the station, his eyes narrowing. The path was open. Time to move.

Dylan looked at Casey, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the tension in the air. The herd was gone—at least for now—their moans fading into the distance like a passing hive of bees.

As the last of the walkers disappeared from view, the two approached the gas station door, cautiously pulling the five walkers along. Casey stepped forward first, gripping the handle and giving it a firm push.

It didn't budge.

He gritted his teeth and tried again, this time putting his shoulder into it. Still nothing.

"Walkers must've pushed against it so much it jammed," he muttered, stepping back with a frustrated sigh. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his Tsurugi, instincts already preparing for the worst.

Dylan glanced at the windows, his voice low. "You think anyone's still in there?"

Casey didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes on the door frowning, the silence between them stretching.

"If they are," he said finally, "we're about to find out."

Casey took a slow step back, sheathing his Tsurugi with a metallic whisper. Muscles tensed, he braced himself to ram the door with his shoulder when Dylan suddenly gripped him by the shoulder, yanking him backward with urgency. Casey's head whipped toward him, ready to lash out—but Dylan leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper, like wind threading through grass.

"You try that, and you'll bring every damn walker back on us," Dylan hissed. "I stood here with you for four long minutes just to watch that herd finally leave. I'm not doing that again, Casey. So let's take a quieter approach. Please."

Casey nearly missed the words—they were spoken with such restraint, like a prayer in a graveyard—but they settled in his chest like a stone. He let out a slow sigh and looked around, adjusting to Dylan's caution, his gaze scanning the perimeter of the gas station for a quieter way in. That's when he heard it—soft, shallow, ragged breathing. He froze.

His first thought was walker. That particular wheeze, that uneven rhythm—it was burned into his memory. He spun, eyes narrowing, listening carefully. But it wasn't the walkers they'd brought. He moved closer to the ones they had tied—no ragged breath, just the low, ever-present moans of the undead. Casey turned again, gaze darting until it landed on a small crack in one of the station windows.

He positioned his ear close it. At first, only silence. Then…

"Please, we need to go," a desperate woman's voice pleaded.

Another feminine voice snapped back, brimming with agitation. "Are you nuts? We don't know how far the walkers have gone. I'm not risking my son."

Before Casey could process, a deeper voice, calm but firm, cut through the argument. "Quiet, both of you. The walkers left. We can probably go."

A fourth voice, unmistakable and smug, chimed in with venom. "Why don't you go look more carefully so we don't die like that Italian."

Casey stiffened. That voice—it was the one from the radio. He remembered every word that man had said, and now it echoed again like a ghost rising from the past.

He raised a hand and motioned Dylan to join him. The younger man obeyed, crouching beside him without a word. Together, they listened.

The sharp crack of a hand striking flesh snapped through the quiet.

"Why don't you show some respect to the man who saved my life, you ungrateful piece of shit," the woman snapped, fury in her voice.

The man from the radio retorted with sickening venom, "Why don't you shut up and stop wailing over a dead man. What—you wanted to get a piece of that Italian rapporto sessuale?"

Dylan let out a breathy, amused chuckle and was about to whisper something, but a glare from Casey silenced him instantly.

Inside, the arguing continued to unravel. The deep-voiced man—likely the leader—reasserted himself, his tone cutting and final. "You two stop bickering and stay guarded. Whatever made that banging noise—it might've been another group. We can't risk an ambush, or those geeks coming back, so you both gotta stop verbally assaulting each other."

Casey's mind sifted through the voices. That man had level-headedness, tact, and a sense of authority not easily shaken. He marked him as the leader or at least a commanding presence. He couldn't see them, but he didn't need to. Hearing their tone, their panic, their conflict—it told him everything.

The first woman spoke again, voice softer now, more pained. "Joe doesn't have anymore left in him. We have leave him behi—"

"No, we do not!" the another woman cut in, her voice sharp and desperate. "We are not leaving my dad behind!"

Casey let out a soft exhale through his nose, shaking his head. The emotional spirals were dragging on. He stepped away from the window, the storm of personal drama inside no longer interesting to him. Emotions were complicated things, it made people slow and hesitant.

Dylan watched Casey turn away from the window, the dull gleam of twilight catching the edge of his face. There was a change in him again—something in the way his jaw tightened, in the narrowed stare that drifted past the gas station like he was already five steps ahead. Dylan didn't know what exactly his leader was planning, but he'd followed him through tight situations, and something in his gut told him to trust the silence.

With a quiet grunt, Dylan rose to his feet and gave a tug on the rope tied to their group of walkers. The undead shuffled obediently behind him, groaning softly as they were dragged along, a grotesque caravan of borrowed luck. He spared one last glance at the station—at the flickering light in the window, the murmur of unresolved voices—and then moved after Casey, his steps light but certain.

He didn't need to ask questions. He knew Casey would act with purpose. Whatever he was up to now… it was already too late to turn back.

Casey gave a subtle gesture—two fingers forward, then a sharp point toward one of the steel beams holding up the station's awning. Dylan nodded in understanding, moving swiftly to secure the docile walkers, looping the rope with practiced hands, checking twice for tension. The creatures moaned softly, tugging against the binds but holding steady. Once satisfied, Dylan fell in line behind Casey, his grip tightening around the handle of his bat, knuckles pale against the cold.

They crept along the edge of the gas station, the crunch of gravel underfoot muted by careful, deliberate steps. The building cast long shadows in the dying light, and the world had gone quiet again, save for the occasional groan from the tethered walkers. Around the side of the station, they found it—an old window, cracked diagonally but still intact, its edges bowed just enough to create a narrow gap. It was large enough for a person to slip through if they were careful.

Casey crouched in front of it, resting one hand against the frame. He paused, listening.

Silence.

He looked back at Dylan—one last moment of unspoken confirmation—before turning his eyes forward. With a low breath to steady himself, he hoisted himself up, easing through the gap with the quiet precision of a man who had done this before. His boots hit the floor with the barest thud.

Dylan followed close, crouching as he climbed through, bat raised, eyes sharp. They moved like shadows, fading into the dim interior, backs to the wall, listening for voices, movement—anything.

Inside the station…

The air was thick. Not with the scent of death, not yet—but with fear, and something more... something desperate. Casey's heart beat slow and steady, his expression unreadable as he reached for the hilt of his sword once again. He gave Dylan a nod. Whatever they were walking into, they'd face it together

The two men moved like shadows through the dim interior of the gas station, their boots brushing against old grime and forgotten debris. The stale air was heavy with tension, every creak of the floorboards sounding louder than it should. Casey led, his eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement. Then, without warning, he stopped short—his arm shooting out like a barricade in front of Dylan's chest. Dylan froze, his breath catching as Casey crouched slightly, peering ahead.

There it was—light. Faint and flickering, like a dying candle trying to hold on in the dark. Casey's gaze sharpened. The source had to be close. They were near the group.

He crept forward slowly, every step deliberate and silent, but then—a gasp. Sharp and quiet, but not quiet enough.

Casey's instincts surged like electricity through his veins. In one smooth motion, he slipped the revolver from its holster, keeping it low but ready. The steel was cold in his grip, grounding him. Behind him, he heard the telltale click of Dylan drawing his Desert Eagle, the subtle weight of backup settling into place.

They edged closer until the scene opened up before them like a tense stage play—illuminated by the frail beam of a lantern someone had propped up in the corner.

A burly black man stood near the boarded-up window, scanning the outside world with hard eyes. Casey's sights locked onto him, trained and unshaking. Near the center of the room, a younger man—white, American, barely older than a teen—had taken a defensive stance, stepping in front of a figure slumped motionless on the floor. Blood pooled beneath the body, likely the man they called "Joe." The young man's hands trembled slightly as he raised a machete, placing himself between the body and a woman who had instinctively moved to shield someone behind her. Casey didn't need a full view to know it was a child.

His eyes flicked between them—five, maybe six in total, some still hidden in the shadows. Fear was thick in the room. Not the kind that made people scream, but the kind that made them brace for gunfire and death.

Dylan's Deagle gleamed in the faint light beside him. Casey didn't look back, didn't need to. They were locked in now. So, he stepped out into the dim light, cocked back the hammer of his colt and pointed it at the leader of the group.

His voice was low when it finally came, firm but not threatening.

"Nobody move."

At the Farm…

The flickering lamplight cast long shadows across the cramped room, dancing against the peeling wallpaper and dust-choked corners. Carl lay motionless on the bed, his small chest rising and falling with labored breaths. A makeshift bandage—a torn, bloodstained pillowcase—was wrapped tightly around his side, but the cloth was damp again, fresh crimson soaking through. His face had gone ghostly pale, lips tinged blue. He looked like he was already halfway gone.

Hershel hovered nearby, sweat glistening at his temple, fingers pressed against Carl's neck, searching for the pulse he was barely finding. "His pressure's dropping again," he said grimly, drawing his hand back with a shake of the head. "We can't wait much longer."

Rick stood stiffly beside the bed, his shirt clinging to him with blood and sweat, hands trembling at his sides. "Take more," he said, already reaching for the blade Hershel had used earlier. "Whatever he needs. Then I'm gonna go."

Lori spun toward him, eyes wide. "Go—go where?"

Rick's voice was low, hoarse. "Otis said five miles. They should've been back by now. Something's gone wrong."

"Are you insane?" Lori stepped between him and the door, her voice rising. "You're not going after them."

"Rick," Hershel said, firm but not unkind, "you need to listen to your wife."

"No you listen to me… if they got into trouble—"

"You're in no condition to do anything about it," Hershel snapped. "You've already lost too much blood. Look at yourself—you're swaying on your damn feet. You wouldn't make it to the barn, let alone five miles through walker territory."

Rick's hands clenched into fists, jaw tight. "I don't want that young man's blood on my hands… I have to go."

"No," Lori said, her voice cracking, barely holding together. "Your place is here."

Rick turned away, teeth gritted, eyes brimming. He stared at Carl, at the boy's fragile, fading life. The silence stretched unbearably.

"If Nelson said he'd be back, he'll be back," Lori continued. "He's a lot like you. I think he means what he says."

Rick's breathing hitched. "I can't just sit here…"

"That's exactly what you're gonna do," she said, stepping closer, her voice trembling now. "If you need to cry, or curse the world, or scream at God for letting this happen—do it. But you're not leaving, Rick."

Her hand found his. Cold fingers clutching even colder ones.

"Carl needs you. Right here. Right now. And I…" Her voice failed. She drew in a shaky breath. "I can't do this alone. Not this. Not him. I can't—"

Her words were broken apart by Rick subtly moving his fingers from her grip as she sobbed, and collapsed into his chest. Rick stood frozen for a moment, before allowing the woman to cry in his chest.

Carl lay still, between them, breath shallow. The silence of the room swallowed everything except the sound of the wind whispering against the windows.

Rick pushed Lori off of him lightly, then slowly lowered himself to sit by Carl's side. His hand gripped his son's—fragile, feverish, too still.

He stayed.

The sudden roar of an engine outside jolted Lori from her thoughts, making her flinch where she sat by Carl's side. Rick, still feeling the weight of their earlier conversation lingering like a fog, seized the opportunity to distance himself. He rose quietly, moving toward the nearest window. Peering through the fading light, he saw three figures hesitantly making their way toward the front porch, and upon seeing who they were he smirked and went back to his sons side.

With Glenn and T-Dog…

Somehow, Eric had been sleeping in the back of the truck without either of them knowing and had consequently been taken to the farm without his knowledge. He had woken up when Glenn's Asian driving skills ended up making him hit his head harshly on the cargo bed of the truck. Glenn shifted awkwardly on the dirt path, having received thorough verbal abuse from Eric, squinting up at the old farmhouse that stood quiet against the darkening sky. He raised a hand halfway to knock but hesitated.

"So… do we ring the bell?" he muttered, glancing at T-Dog. "I mean… it looks like people live here."

T-Dog gave a tired huff and gestured at the porch. "We're past this kind of stuff, aren't we? Having to be considerate?" His voice carried a note of disbelief—like the idea of politeness in a world full of rotting corpses was almost funny.

Eric paused, his eye catching something as his jaw dropped. Glenn eyed him but then his gaze shifted back to the door.

From the shadows of the porch, a voice cut through the air—smooth, Southern, and firm. "Did you close the gate up the road when you drove in?"

Both Glenn and T-Dog, were startled slightly at the sudden voice, instinctively tensing. Their eyes swept the porch, trained from months of surviving to locate threats before faces. Then they spotted her—Maggie Greene. She sat quietly in a worn rocking chair tucked into the shadows just right of the door, one boot propped against a porch beam like she'd been waiting there all evening. Her arms were folded across her chest, gaze sharp, cautious, but not unkind. Her presence held the still confidence of someone who knew this land, this home, and could handle herself if things went sideways.

Next, their eyes shifted—and caught sight of Daryl, hunched slightly in another chair, his shoulders tense even while chewing, tearing into whatever was on his plate like it had personally offended him. His crossbow leaned against the wall beside him, close at hand. "Sup." His the food in his mouth made his voice muffled but he could hear it clear as day.

Then another figure. A girl. Blonde, her hair just a tad bit longer than Maggie's, dressed in faded clothes and boots caked in dried dirt. She had a plate in her hands as she ate. Her eyes flicked toward them—more curious than guarded. She caught Glenn's gaze lingering too long, wide-eyed and completely unguarded.

Maggie noticed it too.

A smirk crept onto her lips as she watched Glenn's expression falter, color blooming high on his cheeks like a schoolboy caught staring. He quickly looked away, trying to gather his thoughts, but it was too late. Maggie's amused stare followed him like a playful challenge, her eyebrow arching just slightly as if to say, "Welcome to the farm, city boy."

T-Dog crossed his arms, brows furrowed, his voice breaking through the stunned silence.

"Good, but I wanna understand what the hell you eatin', 'cause that ain't look like canned food."

Everyone's eyes shifted toward the black man, whose furrowed brow carried the weight of suspicion and confusion. Daryl chewed deliberately, swallowed, then held up a chunk of roasted meat skewered on a pocketknife.

"Some deer," he muttered, voice low and gravelly. "Want some?"

The offer wasn't exactly friendly, but it wasn't hostile either. Just Daryl being Daryl—gruff, straight to the point, offering what he could in a world that had very little left to give.

T-Dog shook his head. "Maybe some other time, right now we got a more pressing matter to deal with."

The woman—poised and calm despite the eyes on her—offered a small, reassuring smile as she stepped slightly forward.

"Hello," she said, her voice soft but clear. "Name's Yuriya."

She glanced at Eric, who couldn't seem to look at her without shaking. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder before continuing.

"I went to the same medical school as Eric. We were close friends… very close. But we lost contact when the world ended."

She looked around at the group, her gaze steady. "I didn't think I'd ever see him again."

Eric finally spoke, voice low and hoarse. "I thought you were dead."

The weight in his voice made even Daryl shift uncomfortably. Yuriya gave him a soft look, one that spoke of years of silence between them, now broken by chance and ruin.

"I thought the same about you," she whispered as she got closer to the man she called 'friend'.

"Alright, alright, enough of the mushy stuff," Daryl muttered, standing abruptly from where he sat. He scratched at his jaw, annoyed, picked up is crossbow and started walking toward the front door, boots thudding lightly on the old wooden floor.

T-Dog, still clearly trying to wrap his head around the emotional reunion, raised an eyebrow and glanced at Eric with confusion. "Wait—ain't you thirty, tho? I precisely remember Casey telling Rick that info."

Daryl stopped in his tracks, turning his head slowly, his expression shifting. His face was unreadable at first, but then settled into something between disbelief and irritation as he stared at Eric and the woman, Yuriya. His silence was louder than words.

Eric tensed. He clenched his hands at his sides and looked T-Dog dead in the eye.

"I lied," he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. "I said I was thirty so people would take me seriously."

He reached up and touched his jaw self-consciously, running his fingers along the thick beard he'd meticulously maintained since they met him.

"I grew this to look the part. So I could act and sound older."

There was a long beat of silence.

He turned to Daryl, whose stare hadn't softened.

"But I didn't lie about the important stuff," Eric continued, his voice steadier now. "Not about what I know. Not about saving people. Every stitch, every bandage, every call I've made out there—I meant it. That was real."

Daryl's jaw twitched, but he didn't speak. His eyes flicked toward Yuriya, then back to Eric. Whatever storm brewed in his mind, he kept it behind a wall of silence. The cold wind outside howled faintly as he didn't move. He then opened his mouth, the little trace of warmth left. "So how old are ya?"

Eric tensed under Daryl's stare, the question landing heavier than it should have. His fingers curled slightly at his sides before he answered, voice steady but soft—like someone already bracing for judgment.

"Twenty-three," he said.

Yuriya glanced at him. Daryl raised an eyebrow, and for a long beat, nothing but the wind filled the silence. He took a slow step forward, boots creaking against the old floorboards.

"Hell," Daryl muttered, almost to himself. "You're just a damn kid."

The words weren't full of venom. They weren't kind either. Just honest. Daryl looked at him for another long second before turning back toward the window.

"Nothin' wrong with knowin' your shit," he added gruffly. "But don't go lyin' 'bout who you are. People find out anyway. Always do."

He then stood there analyzing everything he knew about the man in front of him. From his hair to his eyes, the way he walked and talked. It all seemed far-fetched but he really acted the age of a man in his thirties. He then focused on the conversation between Maggie and Glenn.

Maggie, having realized the topic had changed turned to Glenn. "Did you close the gate up the road when you drove in?" she repeated.

"Uh… hi," Glenn said quickly turning the attention to him, his voice cracking just slightly as he tried to play it cool. He swallowed and took a tentative step forward, eyes meeting Maggie's as if hoping for a flicker of warmth. His hands lifted slightly in a show of peace—an old habit from before the world went to hell, one that still lingered like muscle memory.

"We closed it. Did the latch and everything," he added, voice rushed. There was a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, like he was trying to convince her—and maybe himself—that things were okay, that they were just neighbors dropping by, not survivors teetering on the edge of another tragedy.

"Hello. Nice to see you again," he added softly, and something in his eyes flickered—genuine relief, perhaps, at seeing a familiar face that didn't belong to the dead or the dying.

"We met before, briefly," he continued, words tumbling out faster now, as if filling the space might keep fear from settling in. "Look—we came to help. Is there anything we can do?"

Beside him, T-Dog stood with the same quiet stiffness he wore like armor. His eyes flicked to Glenn with a deadpan expression that said "really, man?" before shifting back to Maggie. He caught her gaze landing on his bandaged arm—eyes narrowing just slightly, reading the danger in every detail.

Without waiting for her to ask, he lifted the injured limb, palm slightly up as if offering proof. The torn fabric of his sleeve was stiff with dried blood, deep crimson streaks staining it like old war paint.

"It's not a bite," he said flatly, his voice steady but tinged with fatigue. "I cut myself pretty bad, though."

There was a beat of silence. The weight of his words hung there in the warm air between them, not because anyone doubted him—but because the world had changed. A cut wasn't just a cut anymore. Infection, fever, weakness—it could mean death.

Glenn blinked, then looked down like he'd just stepped on something sharp—his expression twisted in a mix of realization and regret he then looked at T-Dog who met his gaze. "Wait… I just realized something."

Everyone turned toward him, some with raised brows.

Glenn's hands went up, a little frantic. "Why didn't we ask Eric to help with T-Dog's arm? He's literally… a medic. A real one."

T-Dog glanced down at his poorly wrapped wound, the dried blood crusting at the edges, and then slowly turned his head toward Glenn, disbelief slowly creeping onto his face.

Daryl, already halfway through the doorway, stopped just long enough to snort with amusement. "Because y'all are idiots."

He walked back inside, letting the door creak shut behind him, muttering under his breath, "Whole damn group's runnin' on fumes and lucky guesses."

Glenn looked around sheepishly.

"…Fair," he mumbled.

T-Dog just shook his head and groaned, "Man, I swear…"

Maggie didn't flinch or step back. Instead, her eyes lingered a moment longer before nodding slowly. She pushed herself up from the rocking chair and gestured toward the door with a practiced, no-nonsense ease.

"We'll have it looked at," she said. "I'll tell them you're here."

Glenn quickly added, "We have some painkillers and antibiotics. I already gave him some. If Carl needs any…"

Maggie gave another slight nod, her voice softening. "Come on inside. I'll make you something to eat."

The interior of the house was dim and quiet, lit by fading lantern light. Glenn's voice softened as he stepped closer to the small room where Carl lay.

"Hey," he said gently.

Rick looked up from his spot beside his son. His face was pale, drawn, but he nodded at the familiar voice. "Hey."

Glenn smiled faintly, then glanced at Lori. "Um… we're here, okay?"

Lori's voice was barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

T-Dog stood at the threshold, his eyes scanning the room and landing on the boy in the bed. "Whatever you need," he said solemnly, after reading the situation in the room.

"If anybody needs medical attention I can help, my knowledge isn't limited to just books it's based off experience and hard work." Eric said firmly his expression serious.

Hershel stood there, arms crossed, looking over the scene with the weariness of a man who'd already weighed every outcome in his mind. "If they don't get back soon," he said finally, "we're gonna have a decision to make."

Rick looked up sharply. "And that is?"

"Whether to operate on your boy without the respirator."

Lori's face twisted in confusion and fear. "You said that wouldn't work."

Hershel didn't flinch. "I know," he admitted. "It's extremely unlikely. But we can't wait much longer."

Silence followed, heavier than any sound. Carl lay unmoving, breathing shallowly. The air in the room grew still, thick with dread and the weight of hard choices.

Eric's words sliced it like a hot knife through butter. "I'll help with the operation."

Hershel looked him up and down before smiling. "I'd appreciate that."

Rick rubbed his eyes after hearing the conversation unfold into something he didn't like, the heel of his hand pressing into the sockets as if he could squeeze the exhaustion out of his skull. The dim light cast long shadows on the wooden walls, flickering gently with every shift of the oil lamp. He let out a slow, tired sigh—one that carried more than just fatigue. It held guilt.

"Why did I allow Nelson to go… it should have been Daryl. Would've been done faster."

The words slipped from his lips like a confession, quiet and bitter. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be heard.

But Daryl's ears were sharp.

The redneck, halfway through chewing whatever stringy meat they'd managed to cook, paused. His brow furrowed slightly. He glanced up, squinting across the room toward Rick with a puzzled look. "Huh?" he muttered.

Rick didn't respond—just shook his head and stared at the floor. Daryl watched him for a second longer before giving a quiet grunt and going back to his food, the tension passing like a cold wind through an open door.

But the guilt remained, sitting heavy in Rick's chest like a stone in deep water.

Lori stood near Rick, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to hold everything in. The tears on her face had dried, leaving faint trails down her cheeks. The lamplight painted her features in stark contrast—soft and broken in one moment, sharp and accusing in the next.

She had heard him. Every word.

Her eyes, which had just moments ago been locked on Carl's pale, still form, slowly turned to Rick. She studied him, searching, as if trying to understand something she hadn't realized until now. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, strained with exhaustion and layered with something else—hurt… maybe even jealousy.

"Why do you care about Nelson so much?" she asked quietly. "You didn't even know him before all this. Why are you so… stressed about him?"

Rick didn't answer right away. The question settled like a weight between them.

His jaw tightened. His gaze didn't waver. He looked at her—really looked at her.

There she stood. The woman he had built a life with. The woman who bore his child. The woman who, at some point, had stopped being his and hadn't told him at all.

Lori's expression shifted as she saw it—the flicker in his eyes. That restrained fury. The questions he'd been burying since the highway, since Casey's words cut into the open wounds neither of them dared to name.

He wanted to scream, to demand the truth, but he didn't. Not yet.

Instead, his lips pressed into a thin line. His voice, when it came, was hoarse—full of held-back pain.

He wanted to tell her. About what Casey had said. About the gnawing seed of doubt he'd buried since the highway—how he had almost confronted Shane then and there. But he hadn't. Hadn't stopped to ask himself if Casey could've been wrong. He had just met him after all. But why had he been so persuaded to listen to a man he'd never seen before the outbreak? It didn't make sense.

But somehow still… it all made sense, didn't it?

The hushed conversation at the quarry.

The looks Shane gave Lori when he thought no one was watching.

The way they both acknowledged Rick since he'd come back. Not saying they shouldn't have missed him, but it felt forced. Was it grief over Carl that made Lori act the way she did? Probably. But still, something about her loyalty—how she had defended him, even when he made reckless calls—stuck with him.

It felt like something more than loyalty. Guilt.

She had defended him harder now than she ever had before the world went to hell. As if she was making up for something. Trying to mend it in silence.

Something she did.

The realization hit him again, hard. Hot. His anger flared like dry grass catching fire, his gaze turning sharp as flint. He stared deep into her face, and she took an unconscious step back.

She hadn't seen that look before. Hadn't seen when he was really riled up.

Rick broke his gaze from her and looked toward Hershel, who had been lingering near the door. "Give us the room," Rick said, voice low but steady.

The men left without issue, they had been talking about something with Casey but the old man studied them both hesitantly, reading something in the air he didn't need to hear out loud. Without a word, he nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Rick turned slowly back to Lori. The air in the room grew thick with silence. No sound but the faint wheeze of Carl's shallow breaths and the distant creak of the old farmhouse settling into the night.

He looked at her—and for the first time in a long time, he didn't see her as his wife. Not entirely. She looked older now, wearier. Like the weight of the world had settled in her shoulders and didn't want to let go. But maybe he did too. Maybe they all did.

Rick wanted to believe he was wrong.

"Maybe I'm crazy", he thought.

Maybe Casey had it wrong. Maybe Shane wasn't what Rick had started to believe. Maybe Lori hadn't abandoned him—hadn't betrayed him—she had just… moved on, thought he was gone. Dead. Everyone thought that.

And Shane? He was Rick's best friend. His brother in arms. The man who stood between Lori and the chaos. He probably just got too used to protecting her. Maybe there was never anything to it. Maybe what Casey saw was just misread signs.

Rick's jaw flexed. His eyes dropped to the floor, then slowly lifted to meet hers.

"I don't know what's true anymore," he admitted quietly. His voice cracked on the edge of the words, like a man trying to hold together something that had already fallen apart.

Lori's eyes glistened again, but she didn't move. Didn't reach for him. "Rick…" she whispered.

But he raised a hand—not to strike, not to accuse, just to stop her words.

"I want to believe you," he said, the anguish finally leaking into his voice. "I need to believe you. But I keep seeing it—back on the highway, at the quarry. The way Shane looks at you. The way you—"

He cut himself off. Exhaled a shaky breath.

She opened her mouth, maybe to ask what was wrong—but he cut her off, his voice quieter now, heavy with something between grief and exhaustion.

"Lori… do you love me?"

She froze.

"What?"

"I asked… do you love me?" he repeated, firmer this time, the cold fire in his eyes steady.

"Rick…" she breathed. "Of course I do. Why would you ask me that?"

But her voice faltered. And that slight hesitation—it answered more than she realized.

Rick didn't relent. "Do you love me?" he said again, slower now. A question stripped to its bones.

Lori's face paled. "Rick, you're scaring me. What is this? What's with the interrogation?"

He looked away, out the window, into the dead dark night. For a moment, the silence was so deep it almost felt sacred. Then he turned back—not angry anymore. But something worse.

Empty.

His breath shook. His shoulders rose and fell. His eyes, those deep, sky blue eyes, didn't hold relief. Not hope. Just loss. "It's like I'm walking through smoke, trying to find solid ground, but every time I think I've got it, it slips out from under me."

Lori stepped closer, but he didn't back away. Didn't lean forward either. They were standing inches apart, but a canyon yawned between them.

Rick's voice was hoarse, barely louder than a whisper, but it struck Lori like a hammer.

"So tell me… if what Casey told me is true…"

His eyes weren't warm. They weren't angry either. They were shattered—like glass still holding its shape out of sheer stubbornness.

He didn't look at her with love.

He looked at her with anguish.

Like a man still hoping—praying—that the worst wasn't true.

"What? W-what did Casey tell you?" Lori stammered, heartbeat quickening under pressure.

"Were you and Shane?..." His voice faltered, cracked down the middle like a Fault line giving way under pressure. He looked to the floor and swallowed hard, his throat dry, and cursed himself for asking, but he couldn't take it back.

Lori froze as her heartbeat quickened even more.

Her eyes widened like she'd just been caught in a floodlight, and her mouth opened—but no words came. She looked like she'd just swallowed a bomb. Like the confession she'd locked away behind her ribs was about to detonate. She didn't know what to say. What to tell Rick as he looked up from the floor and stared into her eyes.

Silence settled over them like a thick, smothering blanket.

Rick didn't move. His shoulders were still. His breathing shallow. The only sound in the room was the distant rustle of the wind outside and the faint creak of the old farmhouse walls, but in Rick's head, it was deafening.

The weight of the silence told him more than words ever could. He took it as confirmation.

And still, she said nothing.

Still.

He took a shaky breath and nodded once, slowly. Like a man who just confirmed the cause of death on someone he loved.

He didn't yell, he didn't break.

But something inside him did.

A fracture, quiet but final.

He looked away from her then back to the floor. Back to anywhere but the woman who once held his heart.

And for the first time since the dead started walking, Rick Grimes felt truly, utterly alone.

"I thought you were dead," she said finally, her voice breaking, fresh tears replacing the dried ones. "I thought you were dead, Rick."

"And then I wasn't," he murmured. "And now everything's changed."

Neither of them moved. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees like whispers of ghosts.

Finally, Rick looked back at Carl, chest rising and falling under a bloodied pillowcase.

"I don't care about what you have to say, I don't care about what you did, you thought I was dead, I care about Nelson because I need those supplies if I want any chance of saving my son, my son, I don't care about if you don't love me anymore or see me as a man you could keep a relationship with," he said softly but the tone in his voice was firm. "I care about right and wrong. About loyalty. If something happened… and I don't look it in the eye... then I'm not the man Carl thinks I am."

He stopped, panting—more from the weight in his chest than from any exertion. The room felt too small, like the walls were pressing in. Still, he didn't speak. Didn't try. He didn't want to.

What would be the point?

So he stared at the floor instead. Let his breath steady. Let silence crawl between them like fog. It was easier this way—easier than looking at her, than seeing the truth swimming in her eyes.

Because deep down, he already knew.

He didn't need her to say it.

It was written in every pause, every flicker of guilt, every time she looked past him instead of at him. Casey had simply shined a light into a corner Rick hadn't even thought to examine at all.

And now, with everything else falling apart—Carl barely hanging on, the world burning outside—the one thing he should've been able to hold onto had splintered too.

The silence stretched. Unforgiving.

And he just stood there, broken in ways no bullet or bite could ever match.

Lori lowered her gaze, guilt written in the downturn of her mouth.

And Rick? He didn't wait for her to reply. He just walked past her and walked out of the room and closing it behind him, never once looking behind.

The silence inside the room stretched, thick and uncomfortable—Lori stood still, her hands wringing from the amount of tears wiping away, eyes pinned to the floor as if looking at it long enough might give her answers she didn't want to say aloud.

Then—

A low rumble. Tires crunching against dirt and stone.

Her head snapped up. A second later, headlights poured through the cracks in the window shutters, cutting across the darkened room in harsh white streaks. She flinched at the sudden glare, instinctively shielding his eyes with a raised hand. Her pulse spiked.

She moved fast.

With a burst of urgency, she pushed through the door, leaving the room Carl occupied. In the hallway, Hershel sat quietly off to the side, a worn leather-bound book resting in his palm, its pages yellowed with time and thumbed from years of rereading. His hand, calloused and steady, didn't flinch at the raised voices or the tension that had begun to thicken the air inside the house.

He barely moved, save for the slow turning of a page, his eyes steady behind a veil of thought.

Lori passed him, her steps faltering for just a second as their eyes met. His gaze wasn't judging—just tired. Tired in the way only a man who had seen far too much grief could be. But beneath that fatigue was something else too… understanding.

She looked away.

No words were exchanged.

Then, as if spurred by a force greater than her own resolve, she pressed forward down the hall.

She found the door already open, the cool night air greeting her with dust and the smell of exhaust. Rick suddenly appeared from the shadows and her breath caught. He wobbled past her without a glance as she looked down in shame.

Two figures stepped out of the pickup that had just rolled to a stop—its engine sputtering before finally dying. The truck's bed was streaked with old mud, its hood splashed with red handprints—some too dark to be human.

Nelson was the first out, the door creaking behind him. His shirt was soaked in grime and blood, both dry and fresh, his jeans torn at the knees, and a cut ran across the side of his face. But despite it all, he wore a triumphant grin—wide and boyish—as he hefted a supply bag in one hand, the contents slightly spilling over the top.

Otis climbed out behind him, huffing heavily. His face was drenched in sweat, his cheeks red and puffy from exhaustion. He staggered slightly, catching himself on the truck's door. Another bag swung from his shoulder, heavy and bulging.

He didn't speak—he couldn't.

But he nodded once, and the look on his face said it all: They made it.

Rick exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. His shoulders dropped, tension leaving his frame like a storm finally passing.

Nelson spoke first, his voice uneven and shaky, as if the reality of what they'd endured was only just catching up to him. "The supply run was successful, sir." His words hung in the air, trying to sound composed—but the slight quiver betrayed the adrenaline still pumping through him.

Before Rick could reply, Otis shoved past him with the grace of a collapsing barn. "Move—move," he muttered, brushing Rick and Lori who was behind him aside with a heavy shoulder as he stumbled through the doorway. The man looked like he'd wrestled a bear and lost, twice. Blood and flesh caked his boots. His clothes were soaked with sweat and blood. His eyes were wild with exhaustion.

THUD

He let the supply bags drop, their contents slightly spilling onto the floor—syringes, medical gauze, and a few crushed boxes of equipment. Otis all but fell onto the nearest couch, letting his body melt into it like a deflated tire. His chest heaved as he side-eyed Rick, words escaping him between broken breaths.

"We almost… got eaten… fourteen times… and almost died… to ridiculous causes twice that…" He paused, large chest still rising and falling like crashing waves, before a crooked grin cut across his face. "I'd say we… can be officially called heroes, no?"

Rick couldn't help the dry snort that escaped him. He shook his head, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. The tension in his chest loosened, even if just a little. For the first time in what felt like days, there was something to feel good about.

They were both alive. The supplies were here. Carl had a chance now.

On the highway…

The soft creak of the RV swaying in the wind underscored the warmth in the small bedroom space. Carol sat on the bed, gently braiding Sophia's hair while the girl giggled at some silly rhyme she had made up while playing with the doll Eliza had given her. For a moment, everything felt normal—like the world outside wasn't rotting.

Then—

CLATTER

A metallic thud struck the floor.

Carol's eyes widened as her gaze dropped. A knife—its polished sheath catching the light—lay by Sophia's boot. It had slipped out from under her skirt.

Carol stared, mouth parting slightly in alarm. "Sophia… what is that?" she asked softly, reaching for it.

But Sophia was faster.

"No!" the girl squeaked, snatching up the knife with both hands and clutching it protectively. She backed away toward the RV wall, her small chest heaving.

Carol stood slowly, worry laced through her every breath. "Where did you get that?"

A heavy shuffle and a groan from the corridor snapped both of their heads around.

Shane stood in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, his hair tousled with sleep and dark circles under his eyes. His voice was thick, rough from just waking. "What the hell's goin' on back here?"

He stepped inside, catching sight of the knife in Sophia's trembling hands.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asked, more awake now. Without waiting for an answer, he strode forward and plucked it from Sophia's grip.

She flinched but didn't resist. Her lip quivered.

Shane held up the weapon, inspecting it. "Where'd you get this, girl?"

Sophia bit her lip, her voice stuck in her throat.

"I said—where?"

Still, she said nothing.

Shane turned away, muttering, "Well I guess it's mine no—"

But just as he stepped back toward the main hall—

"Casey!"

The name burst from Sophia's mouth like a firecracker. "Casey gave it to me!"

Shane froze.

He turned his head slightly, only half-visible over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed, lips tight.

Carol blinked in confusion, trying to process what she'd just heard. "He—what? Why would Casey give you a knife, honey?"

Sophia looked between them both, suddenly unsure if she was protecting a friend or about to get him in trouble. She didn't answer.

Shane stared at the knife again, jaw tense. Mouth pressed into a thin line.

He turned and walked a couple of steps but he didn't leave.

Instead, he turned on his heel, walked back toward the mother and daughter, and stopped only a few feet away. Sophia instinctively stepped back, her hand gripping the hem of Carol's shirt.

Carol's arms came up immediately, protectively shielding Sophia behind her. "Shane…" she warned softly, not with aggression—just worry. She wasn't used to confrontation, not like the others.

Shane paused.

Something unreadable flashed across his face—anger? Regret? Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he dropped down onto the floor and sat cross-legged, right in front of them.

"Come here," he said, his voice even. Not a command. An invitation.

Carol hesitated, unsure of what Shane was trying.

Sophia peeked around her mother's side, searching Shane's face. His posture was relaxed, his hands open. The knife rested flat in his palm, the sheath dull under the RV's yellow ceiling light. Something in his eyes made the little girl move. Carefully, nervously, she stepped around Carol and walked up to him.

She stopped just short.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Shane let out a soft breath through his nose. His eyes rolled upward for a second, and then he gave her a tired, exasperated look—not angry, just worn.

"Mad?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Nah, kid. 'Course not."

He held up the knife in front of his chest, its handle pointed toward her. The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like he was offering something sacred.

"You hold this. You keep it. Don't ever let it outta your sight. You hear me?"

Sophia blinked up at him, confused. "But… Mom might—"

Shane shook his head.

"This world? It don't wait for moms or rules. Casey gave this to you for a reason. And if he thought you were ready, then I ain't gonna argue."

Sophia's small hands wrapped around the handle. It looked too big for her fingers.

She looked to Carol, who still stood silently behind her, unsure of what to say or feel. But Carol didn't stop her. She didn't even speak—still softened by the blessing of a child returned, a loss never suffered thanks to someone she hadn't yet fully thanked.

Sophia beamed as her small fingers closed around the knife's hilt. With a sudden burst of affection, she leaned forward and hugged Shane.

He blinked.

Surprise crossed his face as her thin arms wrapped around his neck. For a split second, he didn't know what to do—his arms hovered awkwardly, but then gently settled around her back in a brief, almost unfamiliar embrace. He gave her a small pat, stiff but genuine.

When she pulled away, she looked down at the knife and turned, walking toward the bed with intent. With practiced ease, she lifted her skirt to slide it back into the loose waistband where she'd hidden it before.

But before she could tuck it away—

"Whoa, whoa," Shane said, stepping forward and putting a hand on her shoulder. "No, not there."

She paused, confused, brows furrowing. "But that's where I—"

"Not anymore," he cut in, gently but firmly. "Ain't got nun' to hold it in place. You trip or fall, that thing could drop like it just did and you'd be defenseless."

Sophia blinked, surprised at the sudden seriousness in his voice. She looked down at the blade in her hands, now unsure of what to do with it.

Shane stood and ran a hand through his hair, already regretting having to be the buzzkill. He motioned toward the front of the RV with a tilt of his head.

"C'mon. Let's do this right."

Sophia looked up at her mom, who was still frozen in the bedroom doorway, torn between worry and trust.

Carol hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"Go on," she said softly.

With that, Sophia followed Shane out of the room, the knife held tightly in her grasp.

On the other side of the RV…

Andrea sat on the floor of the RV, legs folded, her brows furrowed in concentration as she tried again to assemble the handgun in her lap—Kyle's this time. Her fingers moved more confidently now, the motions less hesitant than before. Every snap and click of the pieces falling into place felt like reclaiming a small piece of the control she'd lost. Charlotte had been livid at first—furious that Kyle had handed over his weapon so freely—but eventually, she'd relented when Andrea calmly explained it was just for practice, that her own gun was off-limits for now.

The door creaked open behind her.

Kyle stepped in, eyes landing on the weapon in Andrea's lap. She barely had time to glance up before he was already kneeling beside her, his hands moving quickly, wordlessly, as he took the pistol and began reassembling it with precise, fluid movements. He didn't say anything for a moment, the familiar rhythm of clicks and snaps filling the small space between them. Andrea watched his fingers work, a flicker of resentment tugging at her pride.

"Why are you taking it?" she asked, quieter than she meant to.

Kyle looked up, sliding the last piece into place with a soft metallic click. He didn't seem annoyed—just focused. He holstered the gun at his side before answering, his tone even but not unkind. "I'm heading out. Gonna scout a bit."

Andrea lingered at the RV's doorway, the stale scent of metal and smoke clinging to her hands after Kyle had taken his gun back. Watching his silhouette recede toward the tree line, a spark of defiance stirred in her chest. With everything falling apart around them, she hated feeling like deadweight—useless, unarmed, and stuck in limbo.

"I'm coming with you," she said, stepping down onto the gravel with purpose.

Kyle paused but didn't turn around right away. When he did, his expression wasn't angry—but firm. "Andrea… no." His voice was calm but held an edge of finality, the kind that came from someone used to surviving, not arguing.

She frowned. "Why not?"

He took a few steps back toward her, not closing the distance fully, just enough to meet her eyes. "Because we need eyes here too," he said. "I'm going light and fast. You'd slow me down, and I don't have time to watch your six if things go bad out there."

Andrea bristled but didn't interrupt.

Kyle glanced past her, toward the others still milling around in quiet disarray. "You want to help?" he asked, tone softening just slightly. "Then help the people who need it."

She followed his gaze.

"Fernando's pipe cracked again—he's been muttering to himself and hasn't lit up in hours. Maybe talk him down before he starts picking fights. Olivia's on edge—'cause Dylan's with Casey out on the SAR mission. She's worrying over sticks 'n stones." He let those facts land, not cruelly, but plainly.

Andrea swallowed, her shoulders dropping a little.

"Natalia's been tending to Cole's arm but it's getting nasty. He tore it up pretty bad going under those cars when the herd came through. And with Eric missing… she's alone handling it. You're the only other one with any kind of steady hands."

He turned back toward the woods, then hesitated again.

"We need to move—sooner than later," he added. "The farm's safer. But it's not my call alone."

As Kyle tightened the strap on his backpack and adjusted the sling over his shoulder, a quiet scrape echoed from above. Dale leaned over the railing of the RV roof, his lined face creased with concern beneath the beam of the flashlight he held.

"You're heading out now?" Dale's voice cut through the quiet night, half-warning, half-weary. "Kyle, it's pitch black out there. You really think that's smart?"

Kyle didn't look up right away. He clicked the holster on his belt into place before replying, tone neutral but decisive. "I've got my gun, a light, and someone watching my six. I'll be fine."

"Who?" Dale pressed, blinking as he adjusted his flashlight downward.

That's when Kyle finally looked up. "Charlotte."

From a few feet away, Andrea froze. Her lips parted just slightly, and her fingers instinctively curled at her sides. The pieces clicked into place—the borrowed gun, the sudden rush to leave, the dismissiveness earlier. Of course. Charlotte. A pang of something sharp—jealousy, maybe—flared in her chest. She quickly looked away before anyone could read it on her face.

Dale looked taken aback. "You're taking Charlotte? She's barely—"

"She's tougher than you think," Kyle cut in flatly. "Besides, she volunteered. I didn't force her."

The tail end of the conversation was enough to catch the attention of Shane, who was leaning near the edge of the clearing, adjusting Sophia's makeshift holster and absently fidgeting with his own sidearm. His ears perked at the rising tension, and he walked over to the RV's steps, his boots crunching the gravel with deliberate weight.

"What's goin' on here?" he asked, gaze flicking from Dale to Kyle, then briefly landing on Andrea—who shifted uncomfortably. "I hear people talkin', and someone's armed up like he's headin' to war."

Kyle stood stiffly, his shoulders squared but his expression sunken—eyes rimmed with frustration, disappointment shadowing his face like a bruise that refused to fade. His jaw clenched as he stared off toward the tree line where he'd meant to vanish moments ago. The anger in him wasn't loud—it was quiet, simmering, the kind that burned deeper.

Andrea crossed her arms, exasperation flaring in her features as she glanced toward Shane. His presence only complicated things. She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and simply looked away, biting down whatever rising words threatened to tumble out. The flicker of jealousy still lingered in her chest, now warped into irritation and confusion.

Dale, meanwhile, rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a sigh that sounded like relief and fatigue rolled into one. "I was tryin' to stop him from doin' something stupid," he muttered, shaking his head as he looked between the group. "He was going out there—with Charlotte. In the middle of the damn night. For what? God knows what."

Kyle snapped his head toward him, his voice low and sharp like the snap of a twig underfoot. "I told you I was scouting. Just scouting. You ever think maybe I'm trying to do something useful? So maybe back off and mind your own dang business."

Dale stiffened but said nothing more. Shane, watching the heated exchange, raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Alright, alright. Enough."

He stepped forward, placing himself between them—not aggressively, but with just enough weight to demand a pause. He looked at Kyle and saw the exhaustion behind the man's guarded eyes. The pieces clicked together quickly: the gear, the edge in his voice, Charlotte waiting at the side, and the look on her face that said she didn't want this fight any more than anyone else did.

Shane's tone dropped, steady and authoritative. "Hey. I get it now. You were gonna head out with her, right? Do some recon? Maybe give her somethin' to feel like she's not useless around here?"

Kyle didn't answer, but his silence was enough.

Shane nodded slowly, then turned toward Andrea. "Give us an hour, alright?" His voice was quieter now, more measured, almost apologetic. "We'll handle this. Just… give us a little space."

Andrea didn't respond, but her brow furrowed as she stepped back, unwilling but compliant. Her eyes lingered on Charlotte as Shane turned and called out.

"Charlotte."

She froze.

She had just emerged from Olivia's side, trying to stay unnoticed—but it was too late. She looked like someone had just ripped the color from her world, her face pale, jaw tight. She stepped forward reluctantly, eyes darting between Kyle and Shane like she'd just been caught between two crashing waves.

Shane's voice softened. "C'mere."

Charlotte walked over slowly, her eyes avoiding Kyle's. The weight of disappointment sat heavy on her shoulders, and for the first time since the apocalypse began, she looked truly defeated.

With Andrea…

Andrea stormed off, her boots crunching over gravel and dead leaves with every step. She didn't say anything—she didn't have to. Her body language was sharp enough to cut. Anger and jealousy simmered together just beneath her skin, her breath coming faster as she made her way through the dim camp.

When she found Amy, her younger sister was seated by the fire surrounded by a loose ring of men—Clay, he was charming but was untrustworthy in her eyes. Bishop, he was a religious zealot probably had a cult before the world ended and even Silas, an ex-convict with a high possibility of a violent streak—laughing and trading stories as if they'd all known each other for years. Amy was in the center of it all, cheeks flushed from the firelight and attention, smiling like the world hadn't fallen apart.

Andrea paused. The sight hit her like a gut punch. Amy looked so… normal. Like a teenager at a college bonfire instead of a girl who nearly died just a few nights ago. Instead of joy, Andrea felt irritation bloom in her chest, thick and sudden. Was this how Amy was coping? Laughing with strangers who were most likely worse than walkers while everything else fell apart?

She didn't say a word—just strode forward, eyes fixed like a hawk. The firelight danced off her face, highlighting the frustration buried deep in her eyes.

Amy saw her and immediately tensed. "Andrea—hey," she said, lifting a hand, awkwardly trying to keep the mood light.

But Andrea didn't respond. She grabbed Amy by the arm—not hard, but firm enough to make her point.

"Whoa, hey!" Amy protested, stumbling to her feet. "What the hell, Andrea?"

"We're going. Now." Andrea's voice was cold, clipped, and left no room for argument.

Nelson and Dylan exchanged glances, the laughter dying down instantly. Glenn sat up straighter, his face caught somewhere between confused and concerned.

"What's going on?" Amy hissed, pulling at Andrea's grip. "I was just talking—"

"You don't need to be around them right now," Andrea muttered without looking back. "You've had enough close calls."

"Seriously? I was having fun!"

Andrea's jaw tensed. "Fun doesn't last in this world."

Amy tried to shake her off, but Andrea's grip stayed firm as she led her away from the fire, past the confused stares, back toward the RV like a warden hauling a prisoner back to their cell.

As they climbed the steps and the door shut behind them, Amy yanked her arm free.

"What was that?" she snapped, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "You can't just drag me around like I'm still ten!"

Andrea finally turned to face her, eyes softening slightly but voice still hard. "I just don't want to lose you. That's all."

And with that, she turned away, leaving Amy standing in the small, dim RV, the sound of distant laughter still echoing in her ears.

In the gas station…

"Nobody move."

Casey's voice finally broke the uneasy stillness—low, steady, not loud, but laced with an authority that made the hairs on every neck stand up. It wasn't a shout, but it cut through the room like a blade. He didn't need to yell. The tone alone did the work.

A collective inhale followed. Heads turned sharply toward the source.

Shock. Panic. Confusion.

The American man—tall, wiry, eyes sharp with adrenaline—instinctively reached for a weapon tucked behind his back, fingers twitching for the grip.

But before he could draw—

"Ah ah ahhh…"

Another voice, calmer but tinged with dangerous amusement, slipped through the heavy air.

Dylan emerged from the shadow of the hallway, Desert Eagle raised and trained on the would-be attacker, his stance relaxed but eyes cold. He moved like someone who'd done this before, many times over. His finger curled gently around the trigger—loose, but ready.

"I wouldn't try that if I were you," he added, his smile not reaching his eyes.

Everyone froze.

The tension shifted, flipped, as realization crept over the room like a slow dawn—these two strangers weren't to be underestimated. And they'd come prepared.

Casey's eyes locked onto the black man standing near the cracked window—tall, broad-shouldered, his long dreadlocks falling past his face like a curtain of shadow. He hadn't flinched, hadn't moved, not once since they'd made their entrance. That alone set off alarm bells in Casey's head.

Still as stone… like he expected this.

Casey's grip on his revolver tightened slightly, the barrel still aimed at center mass. He shifted his foot subtly, preparing to signal Dylan—just a word, an instruction.

But he never got the chance.

In the span of a blink, the man moved.

A blur.

Too fast.

Before Casey could even register the motion, the man was on him—tackling him with a force that cracked through the still air like a gunshot. Casey hit the ground hard, the floor shuddering beneath his spine. The breath was nearly knocked from his lungs. His revolver skidded slightly sideways in his grip, and the man's hands immediately went for it.

They tumbled—raw, violent, unscripted. A flurry of limbs and grunts and fury. Casey twisted under him, elbowing the man in the ribs, but the grip didn't falter. They rolled across the dusty tiles, limbs tangling, boots scraping. The weapon was caught between them, fingers from both men fighting for dominance.

Sweat and breath mingled. The scent of blood, rust, and adrenaline filled the air.

Dylan's gun didn't waver. His eyes flicked across the group—still frozen, too stunned to act—but his finger was steady on the trigger. One wrong move, and it was over.

But his focus split. Casey was on the ground, struggling. And the others were starting to twitch.

"Don't!" Dylan barked, voice sharp as shattered glass as he moved towards the young man the gun pressed against his head. "Nobody move—or he dies."

Casey grunted beneath the weight of the man, teeth clenched. But his eyes never looked afraid—only burning with the cold calculation of survival. He shoved his knee upward, trying to throw the man off-balance, heart pounding, each second stretching like an eternity.

Casey's fist slammed into the man's gut with a meaty thud, forcing a choked cough from deep within the man's chest. Blood burst from his mouth in a violent spray, splattering across Casey's face, blinding his left eye. The hot, sticky fluid ran down his cheek, and before he could wipe it away—

CRACK

A right hook caught Casey across the jaw, snapping his head to the side. Lights flashed behind his eyes.

CRACK. CRACK

Another blow. Then another. The man was relentless, his knuckles slamming into Casey's face like hammers. The world slowed around him—his vision tunneling, the edges yellowing as ringing filled his ears.

He barely registered Dylan's voice shouting his name—distant, like it was coming from underwater.

Casey's body reeled under the assault, the man now on top of him, straddling him, raining punches down like a storm. His ribs ached, his nose bled, and the coppery taste filled his mouth. His thoughts flickered—The Caribbean… Rick… Dylan… Sophia.

He saw the man's fist pull back again, winding up for a crushing blow.

No.

Casey's hand shot up—his left, bloodied and trembling—and he grabbed a handful of the man's dreadlocks. His fingers tangled in the thick, coarse hair, and with a guttural snarl, he yanked the man forward with all the fury and desperation he had left.

And then—

WHAM

His right hand, wrapped in a white-knuckle grip around his revolver, came crashing sideways against the man's temple. Bone met steel. The sound was sickening—like wood splintering. The man's head jerked violently to the side, his body going limp for just a second.

Casey didn't waste that second.

He twisted his hips, used the momentum, and rolled them—sending both into a heap. Dust exploded around them as they hit the floor. Casey's vision was red and blurry, but his instincts surged, primal and unyielding. The yellow in his vision hadn't disappeared either. But he didn't dwell on that.

He pinned the man's chest down with his foot, blood dripping from his jaw, and raised the gun again. His voice came out in a breathless growl.

"Try that again."

The room was silent. The chaos had stopped—replaced by ragged breathing and the tremble of barely restrained violence.

The man slowly tried to get up but due to Casey's foot he faltered. The blow to his head had also caused him to be heavily concussed, yet he still moved.

Casey exhaled hard through his nose, breath ragged as he studied the man under his foot. Upon seeing that he wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon he stepped off the man's chest and lowered his gun slowly, every motion stiff with bruised muscle and aching joints. Blood trickled down the side of his face, mixing with sweat and dirt. He wiped at it with a sleeve, smearing it across his cheek in a dull red arc.

His eyes held an expression somewhere between disbelief and frustration. If he'd never been caught off guard for that one millisecond this would have been a different story. That fight had been fast—too fast—and far too close. Casey hadn't taken a beating like that since high school, and even then, he was usually the one dishing it out. But this guy? He had weight behind every punch. Not just muscle—intent. Casey knew the difference. This wasn't someone swinging wildly out of fear. This was someone who knew how to hurt.

The man still lay on his back, dazed, eyes open but unfocused, jaw clenched in anger or shame. Maybe both. There was no satisfaction in Casey's face as he looked down at him—only that grim, tight-lipped understanding that came when you meet someone just as hardened as you, maybe even harder.

He turned and looked over at Dylan. His partner's hands were steady, his Desert Eagle pressed tightly against the forehead of the younger American, who was now stammering, desperate, trying to talk Dylan down. But Dylan didn't flinch, didn't move—his expression unreadable but deadly serious.

Casey's gaze flicked between them, jaw tightening again. He saw how the American flinched with each breath Dylan took, how panic welled in his voice—he wasn't ready to die. And Dylan? He looked like he'd already decided how this was going to go.

Then Casey's eyes drifted back to the man on the ground. Still alive. Still glaring up at the ceiling like it had stolen something from him. There was a bruise already forming on his forehead, and Casey could feel a mirror of it throbbing on his own cheekbone. The room was silent now, save for their breaths and the slight creak of movement from the others watching, frozen in fear.

Casey ran a hand through his short damp woolly hair and let out a bitter chuckle under his breath.

He hadn't lost this round—but it sure as hell hadn't felt like a win.

Casey again wiped at the blood on his lip with the back of his hand, his breathing beginning to steady. He looked down at the man on the floor, chest rising and falling with every breath, rage still simmering in his eyes. Casey exhaled a dry breath and nodded.

"You fight good," he said simply, voice even and honest despite the sting in his jaw. "We could use a man like you."

But before the final word had even fully left his mouth, the man cut him off sharply—voice low and venomous, like a blade slipping between ribs.

"I'd never join your group," he spat. "You'd probably rape and torture everyone behind you the second they let their guard down."

The room tensed.

Even the air seemed to halt.

Casey blinked… then laughed.

It started small—a dry, breathy scoff—but quickly turned into something deeper. Not manic, but raw and guttural, rolling from his gut like he hadn't laughed in years. Everyone in the room stared. The man on the floor looked disgusted. His group glanced at each other in visible confusion. Dylan's eyes flicked to Casey, his grip on the gun wavering for the first time, disturbed by how casually his group leader was taking that kind of accusation.

Casey slowly calmed himself, the laughter fading into something quieter—his grin laced with bitter irony. He stepped forward, not in menace but in confidence, boots crunching faintly on broken tile. He stopped in front of the man again and looked down at him with something unreadable in his eyes—part amusement, part sadness.

"You're serious," Casey said, the grin still tugging at his lips. "You really think I'd go through all this trouble, drive across miles, hunt walkers for hours, risk getting torn apart—just to rape and torture a bunch of strangers?"

He let the question hang in the air like a storm cloud before looking toward Dylan.

"Lower the gun."

Dylan hesitated… then obeyed.

Casey crouched slowly in front of the man, his voice lowering with him.

"You don't know me," he said, voice quiet, sharp as flint. "You don't know us. But I can tell you this right now—if that's the world you see every time someone extends a hand, maybe it ain't me you should be afraid of."

He stood again, towering over the still-prone man, then turned and began walking toward the others without looking back.

"Decide quick," he added over his shoulder. "We didn't come to hurt anyone. But we will walk out the same door we came in if that's what it takes."

The silence afterward wasn't from fear this time. It was tension. It was choice.

Casey exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting away from the bruised man still sitting on the floor and turning toward the others. The group behind him remained tense, but he felt it—something loosening in the air, just slightly. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't pulled the trigger. Maybe it was the weariness in all their eyes. Maybe it was just time.

He holstered his sidearm and took a few cautious steps toward the cluster of women huddled near a half-collapsed display shelf. His voice softened as he approached.

"Name's Casey," he said, brushing a bloodied hand on his jeans before extending it. "Casey Gonzalez."

The brown-haired woman looked him up and down—her face lined with stress, dirt clinging to her cheeks—but she slowly reached out and shook his hand. Her grip was hesitant, but not weak.

"Nina," she said. "Nina Raye."

Casey nodded politely. "Good to meet you, Nina."

He turned to the woman beside her, whose jet-black hair was tucked behind her ears. She stood straighter than the rest, a subtle strength about her despite the weariness in her posture.

"Camille Thatcher," she said, her voice carrying an edge that made Casey take her seriously immediately.

He nodded again, slower this time. "Camille."

Then his eyes flicked to the woman standing slightly apart from them all—clutching a child close to her chest. Her eyes were wary, half-lidded from exhaustion but locked onto his every move. Casey softened his voice further and tilted his head.

"You got a name too?"

She didn't speak at first. She just adjusted the child's position against her shoulder and gave a stiff nod. "Angela."

Her voice cracked a little as she said it, protective instincts bristling from under every syllable. Casey's gaze dipped to the little boy now peeking from behind her shoulder, wide-eyed, no older than five. He offered a gentle smile before returning his attention to Angela.

"Your boy?" he asked.

But Angela's eyes flared, and Nina stepped slightly between them—guarded now.

"We don't talk about him to strangers," she said, firm but not hostile. "You'll understand."

Casey held up both hands in surrender. "Fair enough."

A brief silence passed before Camille tilted her head, regarding him with narrowed eyes.

"Gonzalez," she said. "That's not a name you hear often around here. Where's it from?"

Casey gave a faint smirk, the kind that came from old memories. "My mom's. Took her last name instead of my father's. Just felt… right."

"That doesn't answer the question." she pushed.

"Doesn't need to." he shut her down before the situation got tenser.

Camille studied him a second longer, then simply nodded.

Angela, perhaps sensing something more human in him now, shifted the boy to her hip. "How many of you are there?"

Casey looked toward the door, where Dylan still stood, watching silently with his gun lowered. Then he turned back to the group of women.

"Thirty-two," he said calmly. "If you decide to come with us… thirty-two."

That number landed heavier than he expected. For them, it wasn't just a count. It meant food, protection… maybe safety. Or maybe betrayal. The weight of choice reflected in their tired faces.

But for Casey, it meant responsibility. It meant risk. And maybe—just maybe—hope.

Casey rose to his feet, brushing dust from his jeans and stretching out his sore shoulder with a quiet grunt. His boots thudded lightly against the cracked tiles as he moved toward the last member of the group—the young man who hadn't spoken much, still crouched against the far wall. His eyes were wide with fear, darting between Casey and Dylan like a cornered animal unsure whether the threat had truly passed.

Casey stopped a few feet away, giving the young man space. He lowered his voice, firm but not harsh. "Name?"

The young man's lips parted as if dry, words trembling before they came out. "Danny. Danny Withers," he said, voice hoarse from disuse or fear—or both. "Please don't hurt me. I—I can be useful. I'm fast with my hands, I can learn. I'll scavenge, fight, whatever your group needs—I just…" he looked down, shame coloring his face. "I don't wanna die."

The desperation in the man's tone made Casey blink. He hadn't expected that—not from someone who looked built like a young adult. Casey tilted his head, trying to get a better read.

"How old are you, Danny?" he asked, his brows knitting together.

Danny hesitated, clearly unsure if honesty was the right move. But when he spoke, it came out small, hesitant. "Fifteen…"

Casey stared for a moment. He blinked again. "Fifteen?" he echoed, almost in disbelief. Danny nodded sheepishly, shrinking into himself.

Casey shook his head slowly and gave a short laugh—not mocking, more amazed. "Damn, kid," he muttered, stepping closer. He clapped Danny on the back, not too hard, but firm enough to jolt the boy a little. "Puberty hit you like a freight train. I'd've guessed you were twenty, easy."

Danny gave a weak smile, unsure whether to be embarrassed or flattered. Casey's tone softened further, almost conspiratorial.

Casey paused, a flicker of realization sparking in his eyes. His gaze drifted toward the far end of the room as if something just clicked in his mind. He turned back to Danny, eyebrows raised slightly.

"Hey… you got a radio or a walkie-talkie? Something like that?" he asked, his tone curious but edged with something deeper—like a puzzle piece was finally falling into place.

Danny's expression brightened with recognition. "Yeah! Yeah, I do." He turned and pointed toward a corner behind an overturned metal shelf. "Right there. It's that old one."

Casey followed the gesture with his eyes and saw it—a battered, rust-speckled radio resting among scattered supplies. It looked ancient, with a cracked antenna and worn knobs, dust gathered in every crevice like the thing had been sitting for years… and maybe it had. But somehow, it had still worked.

He moved closer, crouching beside it and brushing off the dirt with a swipe of his sleeve. The radio whined faintly with static. Casey gave it a thoughtful look, then turned back to Danny.

"You were the one on the frequency," he said, more a statement than a question. "We heard your message—back when we were with our group. You said something about needing help. About being trapped here."

Danny nodded slowly, eyes lowering as a hint of shame returned. "I didn't think anyone would actually come."

Casey's face softened, the usual intensity in his features melting just enough to show sincerity. "Well… we did." He straightened up and gave Danny a short nod. "You called. We answered."

Danny's eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth parting slightly as the realization hit. "Wait… you're serious? I thought it wasn't going through. I thought no one heard me." His voice cracked with the weight of what could have been despair—nights spent thinking his words were lost in the static, sent into nothing.

Casey gave a slow nod, standing upright again as he looked down at the rusted device. "Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You were broadcasting on an open signal. We caught the message—barely. But when I tried to respond…" He held up his hand, mimicking holding a walkie-talkie. "I was using one of these. The two aren't exactly made to talk to each other."

Danny blinked rapidly, trying to wrap his head around it. "So… all that time, you were trying to talk back?"

Casey offered a faint grin, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between amusement and regret. "I was. But that old radio of yours? It's a one-way ticket. You were shouting into the void, kid—but it wasn't empty. We heard."

Danny's shoulders slumped, a slow breath escaping him like a balloon finally deflating. The tension he'd carried—fear, loneliness, uncertainty—seemed to drain from him all at once.

"I really thought I was gonna die in here," he admitted, voice small.

Casey looked at him for a long beat, then stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. "You're not gonna die today," he said. "Not while you're with us."

"Also."

"Word of advice," he continued, leaning down slightly so only Danny could hear. "Don't go around telling people your age. You wanna be taken seriously in this world, sometimes you gotta let 'em believe what they already see."

Danny looked up at him, the hint of tears still glistening in his eyes but his lips twitching into the smallest of smiles. For the first time in what might've been days, maybe longer, he didn't look like he was about to break. He looked like someone trying to stand.

Casey gave him one last pat and stood tall again, turning to face the rest of the room. It was far from a full bond of trust—but it was a start.