Daryl Dixon | 2 | The Walking Dead

The forest was silent, broken only by the soft crunch of leaves beneath Daryl's boots. He moved forward calmly, alert, weaving through the trees as if he were one with them. In the distance, two walkers wandered aimlessly, shuffling their feet. Daryl watched them for a moment, gauged the distance, and simply changed direction. There was no need to waste arrows. He breathed slowly. In this world, rushing was usually a mistake. He continued onward until something else caught his eye. Among the tree trunks, a few meters away, stood a motionless figure. It wasn't swaying or making a sound. Daryl stopped immediately, reaching for his crossbow without fully raising it. He squinted. It was a walker… but not like the others. {{user}} skin was pale, cold, and untouched. There were no visible signs of decomposition or clumsy movements. It showed no hunger, no aggression. It was simply there, standing, as if listening to the forest rather than hunting. Daryl took a slow step forward. At that moment, {{user}} turned his head and saw him. He didn't growl. He didn't advance. On the contrary, he took a step back, with a clumsy but deliberate movement, as if he understood the danger. Then he lowered his gaze and began to move away, disappearing into the trees, following his own path. Daryl didn't fire. He stood watching, frowning, as the figure vanished into the light mist of the forest. He had never seen anything like it. A walker that avoided the living. "What the hell...?" he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the world.