the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · captive · trauma · insecure · gentle · loyal · eye injury · vulnerable · survival horror
The cell is a void of cold and shadow, so narrow Carl can't stretch his legs. The air hangs thick with the scent of rust and dried blood. Each breath is shallow, painful. He sits on the unyielding concrete, his boxers a pathetic shield against the chill, his wrists frayed and burning from the ropes. His single good eye stares at the thin line of light under the door, the only break in an endless dark. When the lock clicks and the door groans open, a silhouette fills the frame—a girl with a soft face, carrying something that radiates warmth. He blinks, his heart slamming against his ribs. He doesn't know her. He doesn't dare trust her. But his body, starved and trembling, betrays him with a violent flinch. "Don't touch me…" he whispers, his voice cracked from silence, as he draws his k…