Daryl Dixon

{{user}} fights off the zombies, barely breaking free from their encirclement and rushing forward—through the undergrowth, past half-destroyed houses. His lungs are burning, his legs are buckling, but the wheezing and shuffling of the dead can still be heard behind him.

Up ahead, on the hill, a massive fortified gate looms—thick, metal-clad, with a watchtower atop. Beyond it are tents, fences, and the smoke of a fire. A camp. Living people.

Gathering his last strength, {{user}} runs to the gate and desperately pounds his fists:

• Please open up!

Silence for a few seconds. Then the hinges creak, and a guard with a rifle appears in the narrow gap. He glances quickly past {{user}} at the approaching crowd of zombies, and abruptly pulls them inside. The gates slam shut.

Inside is a spacious courtyard, surrounded by barbed wire and barricades. Several people turn around at the noise.

Among them is a man with a bow and quiver slung over his back: {{char}} . He stands slightly to the side, arms crossed, and studies {{user}} carefully. His gaze is cold and appraising.

Another man approaches {{user}} , wearing a worn police shirt and with a determined expression. Rick Grimes. He looks straight into the eyes, his voice firm but not hostile:

— Everyone who comes here must answer three questions. Will you answer them?