twd: the last silence

Chapter 115

The girl Axel just saved…

She wasn't really there anymore.

Her eyes were open, barely. Her breath was thin, scattered like broken glass across her chest. Her skin, pale and bruised, looked more like paper than flesh. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just… stared.

Axel knelt beside her, his voice soft. A whisper of warmth in a world made of ice and fire.

"It's okay," he said, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from her forehead.

"You can sleep now, little one."

Then, without hesitation, he drove his katana through her heart.

She didn't even flinch.

Didn't even seem to feel it.

She was gone before the steel stopped moving.

Daryl stood behind him, watching it all. He didn't move.

Didn't ask.

Didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

Because he knew.

The girl wasn't going to survive—not in any way that mattered. Her soul had been shattered. Her body, torn. Keeping her alive would've been cruelty.

Axel gave her peace. And Daryl understood that.

The silence after was long. Thick. Drenched in the stench of blood and fire.

Then, slowly, Daryl walked over to a tree where one of the Nomads was tied up. Beaten. Bleeding. But breathing.

The man was shaking like a leaf in a storm.

"Look at me," Daryl said coldly.

The man looked. Regret already etched into his face.

"Where's the hive?" Axel growled, stepping into view. His face was shadowed, dark as hell itself.

The man's lips trembled. "South… way south. Deep in the hills. The old military checkpoint."

"Who's the leader?" Daryl asked.

"They call him the Warden," the man stammered. "Nobody knows his real name. He's not like us—he's worse."

Axel leaned in, eyes burning.

"Then I'll be worse than him."

The man swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

Axel turned, already walking.

Daryl stayed back a moment, looking the man over like deciding whether to end it or not.

He didn't.

Not yet.

Because the real blood hadn't even started.

He left him there bleeding tight to a tree

And walked behind axel

The man screamed. Begged but the two didn't stop

---

The forest thinned into open dirt roads, cracked and scorched by the sun. Axel and Daryl walked in silence, weapons tight in their grip, blood still drying on their boots. The wind was heavy with smoke—somewhere far off, something was still burning.

They were close.

"You sure this is the way?" Daryl asked, scanning the treeline.

Axel nodded. "Yeah. The bastard said south. That old military checkpoint has been dead for way to long. Now it's their den."

As they crested a hill, they saw it: chain-link fences wrapped in barbed wire, a rusted gate barely holding on, and makeshift towers manned by half-asleep guards with rifles. Concrete walls reinforced with scrap metal and spikes. It was less a camp and more a prison built by animals.

"The hive," Daryl muttered.

Axel stared down at it like it was the devil's home.

"Let's see how loud hell can scream."

They waited until nightfall.

By the time the sun sank behind the trees, the sky was bleeding orange and red. Perfect cover. They slipped through the shadows like wraiths. Quiet. Focused. Deadly.

Axel got to the first tower, his katana already drawn. He didn't hesitate. One clean slice, and the man in the tower didn't even get to scream before his body dropped.

Daryl moved to the side, silenced crossbow in hand, taking out two men with quick, precise shots. They worked like ghosts—no alarms, no noise, just death sweeping through the dark.

They entered the outer compound, slipping between containers and debris. A fire burned in a steel barrel near the center, where a few Nomads sat laughing, playing cards.

Axel approached without a word.

The first man didn't even register what was happening until his throat opened up and he fell to the dirt. The others tried to scramble, but Daryl was already behind them, reloading calmly.

The fight lasted seconds.

And then there was silence again.

Blood pooled into the cracks in the ground. Axel stood in the center of it, breathing steady.

They weren't done.

They moved deeper, clearing out building after building. Some Nomads begged. Others fought back. None of them walked away.

By the time they reached the main structure—a bunker at the back of the checkpoint—they were drenched in blood and rage.

Axel kicked the door open.

The room inside was dark. At the far end stood a man tall and wide, armored in patchwork gear, face hidden behind a black iron mask.

"You must be the Warden," Axel said.

The man didn't answer. He simply cracked his neck and drew a machete nearly as long as Axel's katana.

Behind the Warden, half a dozen more Nomads stepped into view.

Daryl raised his crossbow.

Axel grinned.

"Let's finish this."

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