In The End | Daryl Dixon

Chapter 63: A

The door creaked open, dragging me out of whatever shallow sleep I'd managed. Something landed on me with a dull thud. I flinched at the sudden brightness flooding in, squinting against the light.

I looked down. A faded sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants were crumpled in my lap. The sweatshirt had a crude yellow "A" scrawled across the front like some kind of twisted badge.

"Put those on," Dwight said from the doorway, his voice low and expression unreadable.

I didn't move.

His eyes flicked toward me—just a moment of hesitation, maybe even pity—but it passed quickly, replaced by that same dull stare I'd come to recognize in the Saviors. Detached.

Dwight sighed. "Don't make this harder than it already is. You need to move."

I dragged myself up slowly, my body stiff and sore, each muscle screaming from hours—maybe days—on that cold concrete. I grabbed the clothes with shaky fingers and turned away from him, even though modesty felt pointless now. Still, some part of me clung to the idea of dignity.

He turned his head, giving me what little privacy this hellhole could afford. I changed quickly, wincing as the fabric scraped against raw patches on my skin. The clothes were baggy, reeking of mildew and smoke, the "A" on the chest staring back at me like a scarlet letter painted in piss-yellow.

When I finished, I stood there for a moment, arms crossed tight over my stomach. Dwight still hadn't looked at me.

"I'm done," I muttered, my voice like gravel.

He nodded, but didn't move.

"What does it mean?" I asked, gesturing toward the "A." "This some kind of branding thing?"

Dwight's jaw tensed. "Just clothes," he said. But we both knew that was a lie.

He finally stepped aside, motioning for me to follow. I hesitated, casting one last glance at the cell that had become my world.

He led me outside to the front gates, and there, standing next to Negan holding a goddamn jar of pickles, was Eugene.

"I have PhDs in biochemistry, immunology, and microbiology, and I've completed my doctorate, which makes me a doctor," Eugene said, his voice trembling under the weight of Negan's stare.

"Prior to the collapse, I was part of a ten-person team at the Human Genome Project, working under Dr. T. Brooks Ellis to weaponize diseases... to fight other weaponized diseases. Fire with, uh... you know... f-fire."

I mentally rolled my eyes. So much for growth. Guess once a coward, always a coward.

"Alright, Dr. Smarty Pants," Negan drawled, his tone amused. "We'll talk later. Don't wander too far." He winked, and Laura ushered Eugene back inside.

Then his eyes landed on me.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Badass herself." Negan's chuckle was low, smug. "Color looks good on you," he mocked, clearly entertained by the piss-yellow A scrawled across my shirt.

I kept my mouth shut.

"You know," he said, stepping a little closer, that damn smirk never leaving his face, "things don't have to be so difficult. You could always agree to be one of my wives."

I finally met his gaze, steady and unflinching. "I'd rather die."

Negan let out a breath of air, laughing under it. "Shoo, damn, girl."

He ran a hand over where his beard would be, still grinning, but his eyes were colder now. "You're lucky I like a little fire. Keeps things... entertaining."