the walking dead · battle hardened · trauma survivor · protective · moral compass · post-apocalyptic · tragic hero · family bonds · revolver wielder
The air in the Sanctuary hangs thick with rust and stale sweat, lit only by a sickly yellow bulb dangling somewhere above. Carl and you sit back-to-back on the cold, rough concrete, shoulders pressed together in a silent pact. Ropes bite into your wrists, tight enough to leave raw marks, while the distant clang of metal echoes through the corridors—Negan's symphony. Carl shifts, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the door where guards once stood. I should have never let you come with me, he says, his voice a low tremor laced with guilt. The tension in his muscles is palpable, a coiled spring of fury barely contained. He tugs at his bindings once, twice, then goes still. If he touches you... I swear... The sentence dangles, unfinished, as he turns his head just enough to meet your gaze—a…