Some fences are built to keep danger out.
While others are built to keep the truth in.
Hilltop had both.
We stayed hidden for the next hour, watching through the trees.
Two guards on horseback rotated every 15 minutes.
There were fields — corn, carrots, some potatoes. People worked them. Women. Kids, and even elderly.
No patrols outside the fence.
"They're not raiders," Michonne murmured.
Daryl squinted. "They ain't scared enough either."
"They haven't been hit," I said.
Yet.
We circled downwind.
I stepped out first, hands up.
Daryl and Michonne flanked me by ten feet, weapons sheathed.
It didn't take long before one of the guards spotted us. He raised his spear but didn't shout.
I kept my pace even. "We're not hostile. Just passing through. Wanted to talk."
He eyed me, then the others. "You armed?"
"We are," I said. "But if we wanted a fight, it would already be over."
He tilted his head toward the gate.
"Come in."
We walked through open gates, slowly.
The place smelled like damp earth and cooking roots.
Fences were high, sharpened with scavenged lumber. Watch posts looked recently reinforced.
The people froze when we entered.
Eyes lingered. Some clutched tools like weapons.
I noticed a few details immediately:
The walls were strong, but the people look tired.
The fields were managed, but the workers looked untrained.
Then someone stepped out of the longhouse.
Middle-aged. Trim beard. Hair combed back like he was hosting a fundraiser, not a refugee camp.
Gregory.
He gave a shallow smile and extended his hand.
"I'm Gregory. Leader of Hilltop."
I shook it. "Rick. This is Daryl and Michonne."
"You came from where?"
I smiled slightly. "Let's say we've been traveling."
He laughed politely. "Well, you're lucky to find us. Not many civilized folk left."
I didn't answer.
Because he was wrong.
We were the lucky ones that found them before someone worse did.
Gregory led us into the meeting hall. Wooden walls. A cracked floor map from an old planning commission. A few candles. Smelled like must and rot.
"We've got food. Trade potential. Some medicine. What are you looking for?"
"Communication," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"I believe there are other communities out there. I'm starting something between them. An alliance of community.
He laughed. "You're building a country?"
"I'm building a future."
Gregory swirled a drink in a clay cup. "And you want Hilltop to be part of it?"
"Eventually. But first, I want to know what kind of leader you are."
He deflected, and dodged my questions every time.
Spoke like a politician who thought charisma made up for cowardice.
Michonne gave me a look midway through.
Even Daryl stopped pretending to like him.
"I'll have to think on it," Gregory said.
"Of course," I replied.
But in my head, I already knew the answer.
He'd sell his people for comfort the first chance he got.
Back Outside
We were offered sleeping quarters for the night — a barn with hay bales and barrels of dried beans. Michonne stood by the door.
Daryl cleaned his knife on his sleeve.
"Man's a snake," he muttered.
"Slippery too," Michonne added.
I nodded.
"We'll stay one more day. To watch, and talk to his people.
There's always someone in the crowd.
Someone the others look to when danger gets close or when silence gets loud.
Gregory wears the title.
But Hilltop is looking for someone else.
Next Morning
The sun rose over the makeshift fields. Chickens clucked. Two children hauled water from the well with a cracked bucket and matching smiles.
The walls were strong, but the people were uncertain.
I watched them work.
Gregory had power, but no respect.
The kind of man who ruled by keeping people tired enough not to think.
We spoke with a few laborers—one named Caleb, a wiry man who worked the gardens.
"How long you been here?" I asked.
"Since the first winter," he said. "Before the walls were this tall. Before we had a full fence line."
"You trust your leader?"
Caleb looked down. Then up.
"I trust the land."
That said enough.
Mid-afternoon, a rider returned through the gate.
Lean frame. Long hair tied back. Clean stride. Light armor and dual knives at his hips.
He looked like a monk that trained with mercenaries.
He dismounted and was immediately met by three people offering updates, notes, and questions.
They listened when he nodded.
Not when he spoke — when he nodded.
That's how I knew.
He was the one.
Gregory had followers.
This man had gravity.
Later, near the side of the community stable, he found me.
"You're not from Hilltop."
"No. Just visiting."
"Name's Paul," he said, extending a hand. "But everyone calls me Jesus."
I shook it. "Rick."
"You came from where?"
"Somewhere west. Alexandria now."
He tilted his head. "Alexandria? That's a new one."
"New. But it won't be alone for long."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Big plans?"
"Yep."
We stood by the fence as the sun dipped low, casting shadows that stretched over the crops.
I cut to it.
"I've seen leaders like Gregory before. Smooth talkers, but empty hearts."
Jesus didn't deny it.
"I've kept him in place because no one's ready to replace him."
I looked him in the eye.
"They're already looking at you. Whether you asked for it or not."
He hesitated.
Then: "You trying to put me in charge?"
"No," I said. "I'm trying to give you a choice before someone worse makes it for you."
I told him — vaguely — about building something larger.
Trade.
Defense.
Peace between camps.
Jesus didn't flinch.
"You'd want Hilltop to be part of that?"
"I'd want you to be."
He looked out toward the walls.
"If I step forward, Gregory will resist."
"I will help you."
He nodded slowly.
"Then maybe it's time someone gave these people more than walls."
Some people shine too early in a world that isn't ready for them.
And when the moment passes, their light gets buried under someone else's shadow.
Not this time.
The sun barely peeked over the walls of Hilltop as we readied our gear. I checked the packs, double-checked the blades, and took one last walk through the outer field.
This place wasn't perfect.
But it had soil.
Soil could grow something — if someone with real roots was ready to plant.
Gregory met us at the gate, the same forced smile plastered on his face like it was stitched there.
"Well, Mr. Grimes, I trust we'll continue these… productive conversations."
I didn't dignify that with more than a nod.
"I'm sure you will," I said.
But in my mind, I knew — this was the last time I'd entertain him as the face of Hilltop.
His time was already fading.
Jesus stood quietly nearby, arms folded, gear still dusty from his last run.
I approached him before we mounted up.
"You didn't have to say anything last night," I told him. "But you did."
He met my gaze. "It needed to be said."
"You've got something people notice," I said. "Even Gregory feels it."
He gave a soft snort. "Gregory ignores everything that makes him uncomfortable."
"Exactly. That's why someone else has to step up."
He hesitated.
That hesitation… it hit me harder than I expected.
Because I remembered how his story went last time.
In the series, Jesus hesitated too long.
He let politics smother his instincts.
He let quieter, lesser people take up space he could've commanded.
Then the Whisperers came.
And in the dark, in that fog… he died.
But here — I can change that.
This time, I'll push the world in the direction it should have gone.
I won't let his story end at someone else's knife.
"I'm not here to hand out crowns," I told him. "But I'll stand behind anyone who deserves one."
Jesus nodded, quiet for a beat.
"I'm not sure they'll listen to me."
"They already do," I said. "They just don't know it yet."
He looked down at his gloved hands. Then at the walls.
"I'll think about it."
"You won't have long. This world doesn't wait."
Daryl broke the silence a few miles out.
"So… you still think he's the one?"
"I know he is," I said.
Michonne tilted her head. "You trust him that much?"
"No," I said. "I trust who he could become."
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