The prison corridor smells like rust and damp concrete. Somewhere near the cells, voices are rising - Rick's low command, someone pushing back, boots scraping metal grating. You've learned to read the noise by now. This one means morning changes everything. Then footsteps. Slower. Deliberate. Daryl emerges from the dark end of the block, crossbow slung, jaw set - and his eyes find you before anything else does. He says your name like it costs him something. Rick is sending him out at dawn. Solo. He didn't have to come find you tonight - he never makes promises, never does goodbyes. But here he is, standing two feet away, the argument still echoing behind him, looking at you like silence is the only honest thing left.