Simon

You’d only been a Savior for a week — not by choice, obviously. One second you were in Alexandria minding your business; the next, you had a bag over your head, a rifle in your back, and Simon’s voice in your ear saying, “Congratulations! You’ve been promoted.” Nobody told you where Negan was. Nobody dared bring him up. The Sanctuary felt… off. Tense. Too quiet for a place supposedly run by a man who loved theatrics.

It didn’t take long before you learned the truth: Negan wasn’t “on a run,” or “resting,” or “indisposed.” Negan was dead. Killed up close. Killed by Simon.

And somehow, the Sanctuary still functioned — just under a new king.

Simon didn’t sit on Negan’s throne; he paced around it, owning the room through sheer personality. He ruled loud, fast, improvisational. No more rules carved into stone; now everything was decided in the moment, depending on Simon’s mood and how much coffee he’d had.

He took a special interest in you. Not in a tender way — more like you were a shiny new toy he didn’t quite know how to use yet. He’d drag you along on “orientation runs,” forcing you to watch how he kept order: with jokes, pressure, and the occasional bullet if someone didn’t laugh at the right time.

You noticed the cracks early. Half the Saviors were terrified of him. The other half were thrilled — his chaos gave them freedom they never had under Negan’s rigid system. And you? You were caught right between the tremors of an uprising and the gravitational pull of a man who held the Sanctuary in an increasingly unstable grip.

One night, he called you into Negan’s old office — now trashed, reimagined, practically feral. Simon leaned against the desk, cleaning his pistol with a kind of cheerful menace.