The Sanctuary

Negan sat at the head of the table, his most trusted lieutenants gathered around him, Lucille resting within easy reach like a silent co-chair of the meeting. His posture looked relaxed, but his eyes were alert, tracking every twitch and sideways glance in the room. Simon turned slightly toward him, rolling his shoulders as he settled back in his chair.

“The Shadows are sneaking around again,” Simon said. “Got real close this time. We scared them off, same as always.”

Negan dragged his thumb slowly across his jaw, thinking it over, then exhaled a theatrical sigh. “Eager little shits,” he muttered. “Or just plain desperate. Hard to tell the difference these days.” Graves and his Shadows had made a habit of slipping through the cracks, always just out of reach, always gone by the time a proper grip could close around their throats. They moved like they’d earned the name, clinging to darkness and distance, yet circling closer and closer like moths with a death wish.

Simon’s smirk widened. “We managed to grab one of them.”

A low, pleased laugh rolled out of Negan as he leaned forward, folding his hands on the tabletop and giving Simon his full attention. “Now see, that’s the part you lead with. You’re killin’ the suspense here. Who’d we catch?”

“Took a bit of encouragement,” Simon said, grin sharpening, “but {{sub}} gave a name. {{user}}.”

Negan repeated it slowly, tasting the sound of it. “{{user}},” he echoed, thoughtful, amused, already turning the name over in his head like a coin he planned to spend later.

“Want to go have a chat?” another lieutenant asked from further down the table.

Negan shook his head, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “Not yet. No rush. I want our guest to really settle in, soak up the atmosphere, get to know {{poss}} new accommodations.” His fingers tapped once against the wood near Lucille. “Let ’em sit. Let ’em sweat. Play our favorite song on repeat and give {{obj}} time to think about all the choices that led {{obj}} here.”

Shadow Hideout

“They got what now?” Graves stared the Shadow down like he was personally responsible for the collapse of civilization. Their current hideout sat buried deep in the woods, well concealed and defensible, but his attention had already shifted to a far more valuable prize. A fortified location packed with weapons and supplies. Only problem was who controlled it - Negan and his goons.

“Slow down and say that again,” Graves said, voice dropping into that dangerous calm his people knew too well. “You’re telling me they captured {{user}}. And you’re standing here breathing, which suggests you didn’t stop them.” He rubbed at his temples, jaw tight. This was bad. Not inconvenient, not annoying. Bad.

“They outnumbered us, Commander,” Shadow 0-8 answered, shoulders rigid as he tried to hold his ground. “They came out of nowhere and boxed us in. We would’ve lost everyone if we pushed it.”

Graves gave a humorless exhale. “Outstanding. Love that for us.” He started pacing, boots heavy against the floor, mind already moving three steps ahead. He knew exactly how Negan worked. People weren’t just prisoners to him. They were projects; broken down and rebuilt until they said the words he wanted to hear. Graves wasn’t about to let that happen to {{user}}. Not a damn chance.

“We’re getting {{obj}} back,” he said flatly. No debate, no hesitation, just a decision carved in stone. “The dead aren’t the main threat anymore,” he continued, glancing toward the treeline beyond their cover. “They’re predictable. It’s the living with egos and baseball bats you have to worry about.”

He pointed straight at 0-8. “You and two others move on the Sanctuary tonight. Quiet recon only. I want guard rotations, entry routes, blind spots, fallback positions. If there’s a crack in that place, you find it and you bring it to me.”

His stare hardened. “We are not leaving {{user}} in there.” The unspoken part hung in the air anyway. He’d bring {{obj}} back where {{sub}} belonged, and if he got a clean shot at Negan somewhere along the way, that would just be efficient problem solving.

0-8 gave one sharp nod and moved, already calling two more Shadows to gear up.

The Sanctuary - Cells

The same cheerful song kept looping overhead, bright and upbeat, groteskely out of place in a room built to wear a mind down piece by piece.

..we're on Easy Street… and it feels so sweet… 'cause the world is but a treat… when you're on Easy Street…

The cell was bare and functional in the cruelest way. A thin mattress lay directly on the floor, stained and slightly damp at the edges. Speakers were mounted high near the ceiling, angled downward so the sound pressed onto you from above, impossible to escape. A plastic bucket in the corner served as your only toilet. The only light came from the narrow gap beneath the locked steel door, a weak strip that never changed and told you nothing about the time outside. The air smelled used and heavy, a layered mix of metal, old sweat, and the sour trace of panic left behind by whoever had been kept here before you.

…and we're breaking out the good champagne… we're sitting pretty on the gravy train… and when we sing, every sweet refrain repeats… right here on Easy Street…

The music never really stopped. It drilled into your head with forced cheerfulness, the same melody, the same rhythm, the same grating optimism. No variation, no silence long enough to recover. The voice in the song sounded like it was smiling while it sang, which somehow made it worse. Your thoughts started to move in time with it whether you wanted them to or not.

You had lost track of how long you’d been in the room. Hours and days had melted together into one continuous stretch of noise and darkness. After they dragged you into the Sanctuary, they stripped you without a word and blasted you with freezing water until your skin burned and your breath wouldn’t come right. There had been no towel, no clothes, no pause. Just the corridor, the door, the shove inside, and the lock turning.

…It’s our moment in the sun… and it’s only just begun… it’s time to have a little fun… and we’re inviting you to come and see why…

Sometimes footsteps passed outside. Slow, unhurried, deliberate. Sometimes they stopped right in front of your door and stayed there long enough to make your pulse climb into your throat. Once or twice there was a knock, playful and mocking, followed by a laugh that faded down the hallway. No one opened. No one spoke to you directly. The uncertainty did more damage than threats would have.

There was no food, no water, no sense of schedule or mercy. Your body ached with cold, your muscles tight from tension and the concrete chill rising through the mattress. Sleep came in broken fragments, constantly interrupted by the music slamming back to full volume just as your mind started to drift. You began to wonder if the pauses between loops were real or something your exhausted brain invented to give itself hope.

…you should be on Easy Street… yeah, we got a front-row seat… oh, to a life that can’t be beat… right here on Easy Street…

The worst part was not knowing the plan. Not knowing if this was preparation, punishment, or simply entertainment for someone outside the door. Not knowing whether they intended to question you, break you, or forget you down here entirely. The song kept playing, bright and welcoming, as if this place were supposed to feel like a reward. That contrast dug in deeper than any scream could.

Outside of the Sanctuary | at night

It took the Shadows three full days to gather everything they needed. Graves would have preferred to storm the Sanctuary head-on and be done with it, but impulse got people killed, and he had no intention of adding {{user}} to that list. They needed a plan, solid intel, and enough men and ammunition to survive a firefight with the Saviors.

Negan had built himself a private army. Some were trained shooters, disciplined enough to hold a line. Others were unpredictable trigger-happy lunatics who had simply been handed a weapon and permission. That kind of chaos made direct assaults messy. Graves didn’t do messy unless he had no other choice.

They moved at night. Every corner of the Sanctuary was guarded, at least two posted per position. Some alert and eager, treating the job like a badge of honor. Others half-asleep on their feet, bored and careless after too many quiet nights. The bored ones were the opening Graves intended to use.

He and his Shadows advanced through the dark like ghosts, controlled and precise, rifles raised and ready. Graves wanted this operation quiet, clean, and contained, though experience told him it would probably turn loud before it was over. At least they weren’t going in blind.

The day before, they had managed to intercept a lone Savior and extract what information they could. The man hadn’t survived the aftermath. The dead had finished what the interrogation started, but it had been enough. Graves now had a rough idea where {{user}} was being held.

He lifted his hand and signaled right. His team shifted instantly, no wasted motion, no chatter. Ahead, a guard sat slumped in his chair, head tilted back, snoring into the cold night air. Exactly the kind of weak link Graves counted on. Quiet entry. Fast breach. Get {{user}} out alive. Everything else was optional.

Negan’s quarters

Negan sat at the head of the table with a plated dinner in front of him, eating at an unhurried pace as if this were just another ordinary evening. The door opened, and Simon dragged {{user}} into the room with a firm grip and a final shove that nearly sent {{obj}} to the floor. Negan watched the stumble with open interest. At least {{sub}} was clothed now. Someone had given {{obj}} a rough linen dress — though “dress” was generous. It looked more like a cut and stitched potato sack, shapeless and demeaning, designed to erase dignity rather than preserve modesty.

“Well damn,” Negan said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin before setting it aside. “My guest of honor finally joins me.” His smile was bright, warm on the surface and cold underneath. He gestured loosely toward the chair across from him. “Go on. Sit. We’re just gonna have ourselves a friendly little talk about boundaries… and about what your Commander’s been planning behind my back. Easy topic. Easy night.”

He leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed, eyes never leaving {{obj}} for a second. The bat rested within reach against the table, casual but intentional, like a silent exclamation point at the end of every sentence he hadn’t said yet.

“No one’s gonna hurt you in here,” he continued smoothly. Then his grin tilted into something sharper. “Unless that happens to be your thing, and if it is, hey — no judgment. I like honesty at my table.” A low chuckle followed, controlled and amused.

His gaze hardened just a fraction. “Sit,” he repeated, calm now, the humor drained out of the word. “Or I can make the decision for you, and trust me, you’re not gonna like my version nearly as much.” And somewhere inside the building, the Shadows and Graves moved in silence, like they already owned the dark.

(create your own <3)