The sun had begun its slow descent by the time Shane returned.
The heavy clang of the outer yard gate echoed through the prison like a warning bell, bouncing off the cracked walls and rusted bars. Those gathered in the main yard—Rick, Murphy, Andrea, Amy, Glenn, T-Dog, Lori, Carl, and Sophia—turned as one, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Shane marched through the threshold first, boots crunching over broken glass and dust. His face was hard, tight-lipped, streaked with grime and something darker—blood, old and half-dried. Behind him trailed a handful of Woodbury survivors who had thrown their lot in with him: grim-faced, weary, their eyes avoiding contact with the others.
Rick straightened from where he stood near the barricade, hand dropping instinctively to the revolver holstered at his hip.
Murphy leaned lazily against a steel beam, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised at the blood staining Shane's shirt. His eyes narrowed, cold and calculating.
Andrea shifted uneasily, her fingers brushing the grip of her pistol, while Amy hung closer to the center, glancing between Rick and Shane, sensing the brewing storm.
Sophia and Carl stayed near Lori, who dropped a protective hand onto each of their shoulders.
"What happened?" Rick asked, voice steady but low.
Shane pulled up short, throwing a quick glance at Murphy before answering. His nostrils flared. "Found some stragglers. Other prisoners."
"And?" Rick's tone sharpened.
"They're not a problem anymore," Shane said flatly, his jaw tightening.
Rick's expression darkened. "You killed them."
"They were dangerous," Shane shot back immediately. "We couldn't trust 'em. You wanna take chances after what we just went through? After what happened at Woodbury?"
Silence rippled across the yard. A few of the Woodbury followers nodded grimly behind Shane, silently backing his words.
Murphy pushed off the beam, walking a few slow, deliberate steps forward. His hands hung loose by his sides, but his body was tense—coiled, ready.
"Funny," Murphy said dryly. "You didn't even try talking to 'em first, did you?"
Shane's eyes flashed with anger. "You got a lotta nerve, freak."
Murphy smirked, a slow, dangerous curl of his lips, the kind that didn't touch his eyes. "Look at you. Big man with a badge, now judge, jury, and executioner. Guess you decided democracy's a little too complicated when it doesn't go your way."
Shane's face twisted, a vein bulging at his temple. He stepped forward, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. The tendons in his neck stood out sharply as he practically vibrated with rage.
"You brought the freakshow here!" Shane shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "You made us a target! If it weren't for you, we'd still have Woodbury!"
Murphy's smirk dropped away like a guillotine blade. His entire body seemed to tighten, his shoulders rigid as iron. His voice, when it came, was cold enough to freeze blood. "If it weren't for me, you'd be rotting in some walker's stomach."
The space between them shrank dangerously, both men standing so close that a wrong word, a wrong breath, might set them off. Andrea and T-Dog instinctively tensed, ready to intervene, while Amy's hand tightened around the strap of her makeshift satchel.
Rick moved fast—faster than either of them expected. He threw himself between them, hands raised, palms out.
"Enough!" Rick barked, his voice cracking through the rising heat like a whip.
Murphy stood down with visible reluctance. His fists loosened, but the set of his jaw and the twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed the effort it took to stay still. He took a slow step back, breathing hard through his nose.
Shane didn't move at first, chest heaving, his glare practically burning a hole straight through Murphy's skull. But after a long, tense beat, he finally backed off too, though the fury stayed etched across his face like a scar.
Rick turned, sweeping his gaze across the gathered survivors. His face was a mask of hard-earned authority, but those close enough could see the frustration simmering just beneath the surface.
"We made it this far because we work together," Rick said, his voice ironclad. "We don't kill unless we have to. We don't tear each other apart."
Shane snorted quietly, a sharp, bitter sound that spoke volumes. His arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes darting to the nearby Woodbury survivors—men and women who still looked shell-shocked, exhausted, desperate for someone to tell them what to believe.
Later, as the sun dipped behind the battered guard towers and the first chill of evening set in, the group settled into the newly-cleared mess hall. They patched wounds, picked at what little food they had, and quietly cleaned their weapons under the flickering, uneven light from salvaged lanterns.
And that was when the rumors began.
Shane moved like a ghost through the room—low-voiced, casual at first, always leaning close enough that only a few could hear him.
"Murphy brought 'em down on us," he muttered to a haggard man named Carter, who still wore a bloody sling around his arm. "Brainiacs, Prophet… none of it started till he showed up."
Later, to another group patching armor plates: "You seen how he acts? Like he don't care if we live or die. Think he's really one of us?"
And again, by the fire pit where two Woodbury women shared water: "How long you think it'll be before he gets us all killed?"
The poison was slow, deliberate—dripping into tired ears, festering in the quiet spaces between fear and exhaustion.
Rick watched it happen from the far side of the room. He sat hunched over a long metal table, polishing the barrel of his revolver with methodical, angry strokes. His jaw was set tight, muscles ticking in his cheeks as he fought the urge to slam a fist into the table.
He knew better than to call it out. Fear didn't listen to authority. Fear listened to fear. And Shane, damn him, knew exactly how to whisper to it.
Murphy, for his part, appeared outwardly indifferent. He lounged in a shadowed corner near the cafeteria's broken vending machines, half-lidded eyes tossing a battered can of peaches from hand to hand like he had all the time in the world.
But Rick, watching closely, saw the truth. Saw the way Murphy's shoulders remained rigid, the restless tapping of his boot against the floor, the faint, involuntary twitch of his fingers when someone glanced at him too long.
T-Dog sat a few feet away, arms crossed and back pressed against a cold concrete wall. He leaned in toward Rick, speaking low enough that only Rick could hear.
"This ain't gonna hold long," T-Dog murmured, eyes scanning the tense crowd.
Rick nodded grimly. "I know."
They needed something. A victory. A reason for the group to believe in each other again.
Murphy finally stood, dust and grit falling from his clothes as he brushed off his jeans. He crossed the room toward Rick, moving with the lazy swagger of someone trying hard to look like he didn't care.
He stopped a few feet away, looking down at Rick with an expression that was half challenge, half resignation.
"We need Daryl back," Murphy said bluntly. His voice was rough, sandpaper and gravel. "We're blind without a scout. Sitting ducks."
Rick set the revolver down slowly, meeting Murphy's gaze head-on.
"You're right."
Rick turned, scanning the room until his eyes found T-Dog and Glenn, sitting nearby, sharpening knives with slow, rhythmic strokes.
"You two—gear up," Rick ordered. "We need eyes. Daryl stayed behind after He killed the Governor.. If he's still out there—and if those Brainiacs are still lurking—we need to find him."
T-Dog immediately stood, grabbing his bat from where it leaned against the wall. His expression was grim but determined, jaw set with silent understanding.
Glenn hesitated for half a second, his gaze flickering toward Amy, who sat with Andrea by the far table. Amy gave him a tight, encouraging smile. Glenn swallowed, nodded, and rose to his feet, slinging his machete across his back.
Rick stood, walking toward them. His voice dropped, dead serious. "Be careful. Move quiet. No heroics. If you see trouble, you get your asses back here."
T-Dog nodded, resting the bat against his shoulder. "Got it."
Glenn grinned weakly, nerves plain on his face. "No heroics. Got it."
As the two moved toward the yard gate, Murphy clapped Glenn lightly on the shoulder—a rare, fleeting show of camaraderie that caught several eyes.
"Don't be stupid," Murphy said with a lopsided grin.
Glenn chuckled dryly. "When am I ever stupid?"
Murphy raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, "You want a list?"
That pulled a real, if weary, laugh from Amy—and even a smirk from Andrea. For a brief moment, the weight pressing down on the group seemed to lift, if only slightly.
But it didn't last.
Shane, leaning near the far wall, arms crossed tightly, watched everything with narrowed, predatory eyes. His gaze followed Rick, Murphy, Glenn, every word exchanged, every nod of agreement.
The seeds he had planted were already sprouting.
And in Shane's mind, it was only a matter of time before the whole thing came crashing down.