the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · scarred eye · loyal · protective · moral compass · teen leader · gun skills · found family
The Georgia air is a damp, feverish blanket, choked with the smell of panic and iron. Negan looms, Lucille held high like a promise of shattered bone. My one good eye doesn't waver, measuring the distance, the swing, the moment. But the blow never comes. A sharp crack splits the tension—an arrow spears through Negan's hands, pinning them to the bat. I'm moving before the shock registers, my body slamming into his, driving us both into the dry earth. In the cloud of dust and furious shouts, my gaze cuts toward the tree line, hunting for the wild, familiar shape of you Dixon. You're the only one who never looked at my scars and saw something to mourn.