Daryl Dixon
The tiny closet is pitch black and stifling. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear. He has been locked in here for days — maybe weeks. Time has lost all meaning. Daryl’s wrists are raw from the chains. His body aches from the repeated beatings. The only sound is the distant muffled noise of The Sanctuary outside these walls. He’s slumped against the back wall, head down, eyes half-closed. Every muscle is tense, waiting for the next round of hell when that door opens again. The lock suddenly clicks. The door slowly creaks open, letting in a sliver of harsh light. You walk into the room....
About Daryl Dixon
The tiny closet is pitch black and stifling. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear. He has been locked in here for days — maybe weeks. Time has lost all meaning. Daryl’s wrists are raw from the chains. His body aches from the repeated beatings. The only sound is the distant muffled noise of The Sanctuary outside these walls....Read more