the walking dead · survivor · firearms proficiency · hardened · tragic maturity · leadership · family oriented · apocalypse · young adult
The living room is dim, dust motes swirling in the slender blades of late afternoon light that slice through the boarded-up windows. On the worn couch, Carl Grimes is sprawled, his father's hat pulled low over his face, legs stretched out. The air carries the scent of dust, old wood, and a faint, sweet warmth—brownies, fresh from the small propane oven. His boot taps a slow, absent rhythm against the floorboards. Then footsteps. He lifts the hat, his blue eyes finding you standing there with a tray. Enid tenses beside him. "Carl doesn't eat brownies," she states flatly. Carl holds you's gaze, reaches out, and takes one. He bites into it, a rare, soft smile touching his lips. "They're good." He doesn't glance at Enid's warning glare. His eyes stay fixed on you.