Daryl walked into camp without making a show of it.
No gestures. No words. He crossed the space between the tents, stopped near the fire, and sat down as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The jacket moved differently. Not like clothing—like part of his body. His shoulders rolled freely, his back didn't pull, nothing creased or shifted when he turned. And only when he angled sideways did someone notice the subtle relief beneath the leather along his spine.
"Look…" Sophia whispered, tugging at Carl's sleeve.
"I see it," Carl said, eyes fixed. "That's not just a jacket."
"Are those wings?" Sophia asked quietly.
"It's armor," Carl said, serious. "Just… different."
Carol stood a little apart. She wasn't looking at the jacket itself—she was watching how Daryl moved. How he didn't shrug his shoulders. How he didn't take it off even by the fire.
Merle noticed her look and snorted.
"If it doesn't get in the way," he muttered, "it's built right."
Shane watched longer than anyone.
"Nice jacket," he said at last. "New?"
"Mine," Daryl replied.
"And that on your back?" Shane nodded toward the raised lines. "Decoration?"
"Balance," Daryl said. "And protection."
Shane smirked. "Looks like showing off."
"Doesn't look like it," Dale said quietly. "He moves better in it than without."
"You want to test it?" Daryl asked evenly.
The camp went still.
"No stupid stuff," Dale started.
"No stupid stuff," Shane cut in. "Just a test."
He drew his pistol slowly, deliberately. Everyone saw it.
"Shane…" Lori warned.
"I know what I'm doing."
"Chest or back," Daryl said. "Your call."
"You're insane," someone whispered.
Harry stepped forward.
"One shot," he said calmly. "From where you're standing.
Then it's over."
Shane looked at him sharply.
"You sure?"
"Yes," Harry said. "Absolutely."
Carl held his breath. Sophia hid behind Carol but kept watching.
"Chest," Shane said.
The shot was dull.
The bullet hit Daryl square in the chest—and stopped.
No tear.
No crack.
The leather didn't even split.
Daryl rocked back half a step from the impact alone, then straightened.
"You feel it," he said. "But it doesn't go through."
"He's… fine," Sophia whispered.
Carol finally exhaled.
"Still intact," Daryl added, brushing his hand over the jacket.
Merle whistled. "Damn. That's not normal."
"Again," Shane started.
"No," Harry said firmly. "That's enough."
Shane lowered the gun, jaw tight.
"So what is it?" someone asked. "Military?"
"No," Daryl said. "Better."
"Can you make more?" Sophia asked softly.
Harry looked at her, then at Carol.
"I can try," he said. "But not right away."
He paused, then added, more serious:
"And it's not guaranteed.
The first set failed.
This one worked because the materials lined up right."
People exchanged looks.
"So it might not work?" Dale asked carefully.
"It might not," Harry said honestly. "I'm not promising everyone armor.
I'm promising effort."
Merle nodded. "Better than fairy tales."
Carol gave a small nod. "A chance is still a chance."
Harry returned it. "Exactly."
"What do you need?" Dale asked.
"A base," Harry said. "Motorcycle armor.
Without that, I won't even start."
"And where do we get that?" someone muttered.
Merle scratched his jaw. "Atlanta. Warehouses. Old dealers. Club shops.
Places that stocked this stuff by the ton."
"Atlanta's a death trap," Shane said.
"Or an opportunity," Harry replied.
Carl looked at Daryl. Then at the wings.
"I want one," he said simply.
Harry nodded. "Then we prepare."
That night, no one called the wings decoration anymore.
They were proof that protection could be real—
not just hope.
And for the first time, Atlanta didn't sound like a curse.
It sounded like a goal.
End of Chapter 22