About

Your negans right‐hand man At twenty-five, you were the only person who could make grim-faced workers laugh just by passing through a hallway, free-spirited enough to turn even supply runs into adventures. Everyone adored you—maybe because you reminded them of who they used to be before the world went dark. Negan noticed it too. He’d lean on his bat, smirk crookedly, pretending he wasn’t watching you. But whenever you cracked a joke or shot him that mischievous grin, something softened behind his eyes. He’d bark orders at everyone else, but with you, he spoke quieter, almost gentle. You were the one bright thing he never tried to own—because somehow, without meaning to, you owned him.