Do you understand the moment when the world suddenly falls into silence?

It's like standing on the edge of a bottomless abyss, with only endless darkness below. You jump, without hesitation. And just a second before you fall into the tormenting shadow, you realize how beautiful the sky in front of you is. Helplessness, bitterness, and sorrow rush in, seeping into every corner of your decaying body. Yet, no matter how scared, lonely, or in pain you are, your screams turn into silence. Those feelings, that deep pain, couldn't reach anyone. You are forgotten there, completely and utterly alone.

Maybe the little hope for that gorgeous blue sky is what still keeps you from jumping.

You woke up with a start, your face drenched in tears. Your forehead was still burning, your entire body sore and exhausted. You glanced outside the window; it was already dark. You tried to move, suddenly realizing there was a thin blanket covering you. Did someone put this on you? Your memory was still a bit hazy from the high fever. But you were sure a man had saved you from that damn zombie. Maybe he was the one who did this?

Suddenly, the door burst open. You jumped, looking up.

"Oh? You're still alive."

The man who entered looked middle-aged. His head was shaved, his beard scruffy, and his clothes were disheveled. He didn't look friendly at all, and his comment—did he think you were dead?

"Were you... the one who saved me?"

You hesitated, unsure whether to believe your own words. You might be called someone who judged by appearance, but this guy seemed more like the type to watch you get torn apart by the zombie and laugh rather than help and wrap a blanket around you.

"Huh? Oh no, that was Daryl. You were so sick I thought you were a goner," He laughed as he spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly with a distinctive southern drawl. He walked towards you, and you tensed up immediately. Your hand moved to the knife under the blanket. "Told him to just leave you and grab the supplies, but he insisted on saving your sorry ass. Well, that's my dumbass baby brother for ya."

Daryl. You mumbled the name under your breath, trying to piece things together. So, he was the one who had saved you, and he was the younger brother of this obnoxious jerk? The realization suddenly hit you–you were stuck here, ill and unable to get up, trapped in some abandoned house in the middle of nowhere with two completely strange men. Your fingernails dug into the flesh of your arm as you tried not to let the fear take over. You didn't know anything about this Daryl, but the man standing before you was clearly a creep.

Even when the dead had started walking, it was still the living you had to fear the most.

"What's the matter, sweetheart? You look like you've seen a ghost. I haven't even laid a finger on you... yet."

Noticing the wariness in your eyes, he laughed loudly. He stepped closer, and you instinctively recoiled further into the blanket. There wasn't a shred of trust in you for this guy. He bent down, leaning in just enough to make you uncomfortable. His eyes raked over you, sizing you up like you were nothing more than a piece of meat. Then, he flashed that same twisted grin.

"Name's Merle Dixon. And yours?"

You remained silent for a moment, not wanting to continue the conversation. But you couldn't predict what he'd do if you upset him. You bit your lip, hesitating before giving your name.

"Nice name," His eyes gleamed with a crude interest that made your skin crawl. If he tried anything, you'd stab him in the throat without hesitation. But you were worried that a man of his size could easily overpower you, especially in your current weakened state. You glanced at the gun on his waistband–if he wanted to, he could do anything to you right then, and you wouldn't stand a chance.

"You know, you were lyin' there like a damn corpse all day, so I didn't really notice. But now that I get a good look, you're actually quite pretty, ain't ya?"

You pressed your lips together, your fingers digging into your skin painfully. You always did this when you were tense, you just hoped that it didn't draw blood. Your head was still spinning, and your body was exhausted. You didn't know what to do, but you would never let him have his way with you. Assholes were still assholes, apocalypse or not. Humans were just that fucked up; you'd learned this fact a long time ago.

"How 'bout we have some fun? The world's already gone to shit, and we're all gonna die anyway."

He flashed a lecherous grin, his hand moving closer as if to touch your face. You quickly pulled the knife from its sheath under the cover, but just a second before you can raise your hand to thrust it into his throat—

"Merle! The hell are you doin'?"

Your hand froze, and you turned toward the voice. Another man stepped in, holding a wet cloth still dripping water onto the floor in one hand, and a plate of food in the other. The dim light from the lantern on the floor wasn't enough for you to see his face, but you noticed a crossbow slung over his back, and you immediately recognized it was the one that had saved you from the zombie.

He practically rushed into the room, positioning himself between you and Merle, as if shielding you. You couldn't see his expression, but the broad back in front of you brought you an unfamiliar sense of safety. It was weird because you'd never had that feeling with anyone before, especially a man.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, lil' brother." Merle held up his hands, feigning innocence. "Your big brother and this pretty little thing here were just gettin' acquainted. No need to get all riled up."

Daryl raised an eyebrow at his brother, knowing full well what he was planning to do with that poor sick girl. He grunted. "Food's ready. Go eat."

Merle shrugged and followed his brother's order, heading for the door. But you hadn't even had the chance to breathe a sigh of relief before he turned back, still wearing that sickening smile and said to you, "Consider my offer, sweetheart."

You remained silent, only giving him a look of disgust, even after the door slammed shut and the room fell into silence.

After Merle was gone, the man in front of you finally moved. He awkwardly stepped back a bit, putting some distance between you before turning around. It was only then that you got a good look at his face. Rough and angular, much similar to that jerk just now, but something in those deep-set eyes told you he was different. Different from Merle, and maybe from all the people you had met before.

"Don't mind him," he muttered, shaking his head. He placed the plate of food on the floor and kneeling down to face you, still keeping that respectful distance. He handed you the cloth he had been holding. "For your head. It was freakin' burning when you passed out."

You hesitated for a moment before taking the cold cloth. You glanced up, only to meet his piercing gaze. Unlike his brother, there was no vulgarity in his eyes—just alertness and sharpness. You might not have known much, but you were observant. And you could tell that there was a certain coiled tension in the way he held himself, as if he was always ready to spring into action.

"You still look sick. Here, eat," Daryl pushed the plate of food toward you. You looked at the dark brown, ash-covered meat on the plate, still unable to figure out what it was. "This is...?"

"Squirrel. Or you can eat your own food if you don't want it."

You shook your head, picking up the plate. You pinched off a small piece with your fingers and took a cautious bite. It didn't taste as bad as it looked–a little burnt and somewhat like dark chicken. It would have been better with some salt and pepper, but you knew you weren't in a position to be picky. Besides, you were starving.

He quietly watched you eat, as if to make sure that you had no issues with his cooking before pulling a water bottle from his bag and handing it to you. You took it, mumbling a quiet thanks before continuing to eat. The two of you sat in silence until you finished the plate.

After eating, you felt your body regain some strength. You decided to break the silence. "Were you the one who saved me?"

"You mean the walker? Yeah."

"Thank you. For that and... just now."

Your implication about Merle made him frown. But he just sighed and changed the topic. "Ain't nothin'. What's your name?"

You answered, and he continued, "Call me Daryl. How long you been here? Since Atlanta got overrun?"

"For about a week, I think? Since the city got bombed."

He nodded, "We're from a camp not far from here. You should come, there are women and kids. Might be the last survivors from Atlanta after those motherfuckers decided to blow the whole fuckin' city up."

The mention of a camp made your heart skip a beat. So there were other survivors. Women and kids, huh? Did he say that to make you feel safe? If this had been before, you would have wanted to be alone, as you had always been since birth. But now, you knew you could only survive by staying with others, especially since you had absolutely zero survival knowledge and essential skills to kill the dead. Maybe you should join his camp for now, at least until you felt confident enough to break away and survive on your own.

But should you trust him? You knew he was the one who saved you, but you couldn't blindly trust him just yet. More than anyone, you knew how unpredictable and vile people could be. You couldn't imagine what depraved things people might dare to do now that the old system and society were gone.

Seeing you fall silent, Daryl spoke up. "You don't gotta answer right now, just rest."

You looked at him in slight surprise, then responded with a small smile. This man was so perceptive it amazed you. You wondered what he did before all this happened. A hunter, maybe?

"Can I ask you a question?" You asked, and he didn't reply, just looked at you, waiting. "You and that guy–are you brothers?"

"Yeah? You got a problem with that?"

He was very protective of that asshole. "Nothing. It's just, you seem different from him."

He scoffed lightly, "Don't think 'bout it, get some sleep."

You nodded and slowly lay down. But you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep. You barely knew anything about Daryl, and you still didn't fully trust him. You couldn't just drift off in front of a stranger, even if you wanted to.

Daryl sat across the room, quietly watching you. After a while, he suddenly got up and walked towards the door. The sound of his boots on the floor made you sit up quickly, calling after him.

"Where are you going?"

"Keepin' watch," he replied without looking at you. "Me and my brother will sleep outside."

You blinked at him. Did he realize you were uncomfortable? Before you could figure out the answer, he turned the doorknob and opened it.

But just before stepping outside, he turned to you. His expression was hard to describe, a complex mix of shame and guilt. He spoke softly, "... Sorry 'bout him."

The door clicked shut, and now the room was just you.

You sat there for a few minutes, thinking about everything that had just happened. Suddenly, your wrist started to throb with pain. You grimaced, it might have been from the cut from a few days ago. You pulled your sleeve down to check, and were shocked to see a clean white bandage wrapped around the wound. Was this... also Daryl?

Your heart ached a little. The last time someone found your cuts, they interrogated you, asking why you did it. When you told them it was how you coped, they called you crazy. So you didn't know how to feel about this.

Daryl Dixon. He really was something.

You lay down again. This time, your body began to relax. You slowly drifted into sleep, surrounded by the scent of cigarettes and dirt from the blanket wrapped around you.