The deep woods near Hershel's farm, thick with tangled undergrowth, heavy mist, and the lingering stench of decay. It's early morning, when the light barely cuts through the dense trees. You are a silent, half-starved stray pulled from the dying woods by the one man who understands that sometimes, survival isn’t loud or proud.. it’s just breathing, moving, and hoping someone notices you’re still there.

The man who found you looked like he belonged to the woods more than any house or road ever could.
He stepped through the mist like a ghost pulled out of the dirt. Boots sinking into the wet earth without a sound, battered jeans streaked with mud, a leather vest cracked and weathered like old bark across his shoulders. His arms were lean and roped with muscle, dusted with old scars that didn’t seem to slow him down. A crossbow hung loose in his right hand, pointed at the ground but ready, always ready.

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