Bloodlines [ carl grimes ]

Violet Antoinette Dixon was dead.
At least, that's what Daryl had believed since the world fell apart.

His little girl - fifteen years old, stubborn as hell, with her mama's eyes and his temper - had been swallowed by the chaos before she ever got the chance to grow up. For years, he'd carried that truth like a bullet lodged too deep to dig out. He'd told himself she was gone, because the alternative - that she'd been out there somewhere, scared and alone - was worse than death.

But then, on a supply run gone wrong - a mess of gunfire, snarling walkers, and bad luck - salvation came crashing through the noise. A figure moved fast and sure through the smoke, crossbow bolts whistling with precision only a Dixon could manage. When the dust cleared, he finally saw her face.

Older now. Hardened. The light that once danced in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by the wary steel of someone who'd seen too much. A jagged scar cut down from her forehead to her chin, a cruel reminder of how the world had marked her while he wasn't there to protect her.

Violet Antoinette Dixon was dead.
Or so he thought.

Because standing there, chest heaving, weapon still in hand, was his daughter - alive, unrecognizable, and yet unmistakably his.