Negan

The night in the Sanctuary smelled of damp concrete, machine oil, and fear. The scent permeated every pore of the place, every crack in the floor. The cell you were thrown into was tiny—no bigger than a closet. A bare lightbulb on the ceiling flickered with a steady, maddening rhythm, casting flickering shadows on the walls, coated with years of dirt and stains whose origins were best left unexplored.

The old mattress in the corner smelled of mold and something sour. You sat on it, your back against the cold wall, your knees pulled up to your chest, your hands bound behind your back with a stiff rope that had already dug into your skin and left red marks. You'd only been here for a day. One seemingly short day that stretched into infinity.

The silence was broken only by the hum of generators somewhere deep within the building and the squeak of mice. The Sanctuary lived its own life—noisy, cruel, indifferent. Rick, somewhere out there, in the safety of Alexandria, was probably already racking his brains over how to get you out. But he didn't know it was a trap. That you were just leverage. A toy in the hands of a man with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.

You closed your eyes, trying to hear your own breathing, trying to convince yourself that you were still alive, that this was just a dream. But the creak of the opening door and the heavy, unsteady steps shattered that illusion.

David.

You recognized him by his scent—fumes, old sweat, and cheap tobacco. He stood in the doorway, blocking the dim light of the hallway. His figure was huge and bulky, barely fitting into the doorway. His thick fingers clutched a bottle of some cloudy liquid, and a greasy, self-assured smile played on his lips. "Well, pretty girl?" he drawled, his voice slurring. "Can't sleep? Well, I thought I'd keep you company. Negan, he's strict, sure, but he never stopped me from… having fun with the captives. Especially with such luscious ones."

He slammed the door behind him. The lock clicked with a disgusting, final sound.

"Look at my toy here." He nodded at the bottle. "Want a sip? No? Okay, I'll get more of it."

David staggered, took a step forward, then another. You pressed yourself against the wall as far as you could. Your heart pounded somewhere in your throat, drowning out all other sounds. He chuckled, seeing your fear.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle. I like it when girls are… submissive. But if you twitch, it'll hurt. Although, I might even like it better when they twitch." He drained the rest of the liquid in one gulp and tossed the bottle aside. It rolled across the concrete floor, clanking and shattering somewhere in the darkness.

He leaned his entire body on you. The smell of alcohol hit your nose with triple force. You thrashed and screamed, but your scream was drowned out by his heavy, wet hand, which roughly clamped over your mouth, pinning your head to the floor. His fingers dug into your cheeks, almost breaking your jaw. His fat, sweaty face leaned over you, his hot breath burning your neck.

"Easy, easy, baby," he rasped. "Don't ruin the fun."

He tugged at your shoulder, flipping you over onto your stomach. Your cheek pressed against the cold, dirty concrete, which felt sticky and damp. David leaned on top of you, pinning you to the floor with his weight. His sweaty hand groped along your back, trying to find the hem of your jeans. He was breathing heavily, aroused by his own power, muttering something about how "good" you were for not biting.

Rough fingers dug into the fabric of your jeans, tugging downwards, trying to undo the button. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the concrete dust. You felt his knee pressing into your lower back, squeezing your lungs, preventing you from breathing. The world narrowed to the pain, the sticky horror, and his heavy, ragged breathing.

And then the door flew off its hinges.

The impact was so forceful that the metal panel slammed into the wall and bounced back, nearly hitting David. He froze for a moment, turning toward the sound, but before he could even comprehend what had happened, someone's iron hand grabbed the fat scruff of his neck and threw him aside like a naughty kitten. He flew a few meters and hit the concrete wall with a dull, wet thud, flying off and landing like a sack on the floor.

Negan stood in the doorway.

His leather jacket creaked with every movement, and "Lucille"—his baseball bat tipped with barbed wire—was slung over his shoulder, as if he were simply strolling down the hallway. But his eyes didn't hold that playful, sarcastic sneer you'd seen before. They were cold as steel, and they blazed with a fury that seemed to make the very air in the cell thicker and heavier. His jaw was clenched so hard that his cheekbones twitched.

David groaned, trying to get up on all fours. His lip was split, blood was running down his chin. He blinked in confusion, not understanding what had happened.

"B... boss?" — he croaked. — "I'm just… I'm just having fun, just like you allowed…"

"Like I allowed?" Negan's voice was quiet, but it rang with steel. It was more terrifying than a scream. "I allowed you to breathe, David. I allowed you to eat my food, sleep under my roof. I allowed you to be a worthless, smelly, fat bastard. But what I definitely did NOT allow was to fucking rape women and touch what was MINE."

He took a step forward, his leather boots stomping heavily on the concrete. Negan towered over David like a rock. David tried to crawl away, but Negan stepped on his hand, pinning him to the floor. He howled in pain.

"Are you completely out of your mind, moron?" Negan leaned down, grabbing David by the hair and lifting his head, forcing him to look him in the eyes. — "Do you even realize that she's my asset? My precious little card in this game with Rick. She's worth more than the pathetic life I gave you. And you... you decided to break her. You decided to leave your greasy, stinking marks on her."

He slammed David's head hard onto the floor. There was a dull thud.

"But you know what's funny?" Negan straightened up, adjusted his jacket, and looked down at David with almost genuine curiosity. "I told you this this morning. I warned all those damn idiots that I'm the only one with her. I'm the only one who talks. I'm the only one who makes decisions. I'm the only one allowed within ten meters of her. And what are you doing, David? You must have decided the rules don't apply to you."

He turned toward the exit and waved his hand.

"Simon!"

Simon, his right-hand man, immediately appeared from the hallway, his expression unwaveringly stony.

"Boss?"

Negan jerked his thumb at David, who was shaking, trying to cover his head with his hands.

"Get that crap off my floor. Throw it outside. And make sure it has company. Remember those walkers we tied to the posts by the west wall? They're probably getting bored without a fresh one. Throw it in there, but don't let it die right away. I want it to live. Live and feel them devour it. For ten, fifteen minutes. Let it remember my rules."

David screamed:

"No! Negan, no! Please, I beg you! I didn't know! I just..."

Negan turned sharply and kicked him in the side, silencing him.

"I said GET IT OUT." His voice was calm, but there was a deadly threat in that calm. "Right now, before I change my mind and do it myself. And when I do it myself, believe me, it hurts much, MUCH more. Take him away."

Simon nodded and gestured for two more men, who had silently emerged from the darkness. They grabbed David by the arms, practically lifting him off the floor. He continued to howl and plead, but his voice faded down the hallway, fading into hysterical sobs. The sound of his boots on the concrete. The slam of the door at the end.

Silence.

It hung in the cell, heavy, thick, broken only by your ragged breathing and the ringing in your ears. You were still lying face down on the floor, your cheek in a puddle of your own tears and concrete dust. Your T-shirt was torn at the shoulder, your jeans unbuttoned, the rope around your wrists burning. The chill emanating from the floor seeped beneath his skin.

Negan stood motionless, listening to the footsteps of his men fade away. He looked at you, and for a moment something akin to… concern or regret flickered in his gaze? No. More like irritation that someone had dared to damage his property. He shook his head, ran a hand through his thick, graying hair, and sighed heavily.

"Damn it," he breathed almost silently. "It's the same every time. Give people free rein, and they immediately start acting like wild animals."

Negan stepped over a broken bottle, the glass crunching under his boots, and slowly crouched down next to you. His face was level with yours. He stared without blinking, scanning your torn shoulder, the red marks on your wrists, the tremors that shook your body. You could smell him—expensive cologne, tobacco, metal.

There was a pause. He simply watched. As if giving you time to realize who was in charge. As if demonstrating that, unlike David, he wasn't in a hurry. And that, too, was power.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost gentle, but there was a firmness to it that brooked no argument.

"That bastard won't live to see dawn, I promise you."

He said it as if he were talking about the weather. Not a man's life. It was simply a fact. A given.

"He'll be dying a long time. I'll personally see to it. Do you hear me? He didn't even really touch you. He didn't have time. And that's good. Because if he had…" Negan grinned, crookedly, predatorily. "I'd have to get rid of him more slowly. And I don't like wasting time."

He straightened, his knees cracking, and looked down at you. Then, slowly, almost ceremoniously, he unslung Lucille and leaned it against the wall. The bat made a dull clang as it hit the concrete. Negan reached into the pocket of his leather pants and pulled out a hunting knife. The blade glinted in the dim lamplight. He flicked the blade open.

"Just don't move," he warned, crouching behind you again. "I know what to do, but I need you to stay still. Your hands are bloody. It'll hurt a little when I take this thing off, but it's better than being tied up, right?"

His fingers, rough and strong, settled on your wrists, searching for the knot. The rope was wet with blood, pulled tight. He clicked his tongue, condemning his men's carelessness.

"They tied you up haphazardly. Sloppy. Someone will answer for that too."

He brought the blade to the rope, and you felt the cold steel touch your skin.

"Now listen to me," he said, his voice growing harsher, a little louder. "I'll cut the ropes, and you'll behave like a good girl."

He didn't wait for an answer. He simply waited for you to breathe. For you to understand.

Then, with a sudden movement, the rope slackened, falling to the floor. Blood rushed back to your numb fingers, and a wave of goosebumps ran through your body. You couldn't move them—you could only feel them burning and pricking like thousands of needles.

Negan put the knife away and put it back in his pocket. But he didn't move. He remained kneeling behind you.

Negan grabbed your shoulders—not roughly, but firmly—and helped you roll over. You found yourself face up, gasping from the sudden change in position. He looked at you. At your torn shirt. At the blood on your wrists. At your pale, dust-stained face, red with tear streaks.

He extended his hand to you. A wide palm. Without asking. Simply giving you the option to take it. Or not.

"Come on," he said, a hint of impatience in his voice. "Don't lie there. The floor is cold, and you're already shaking like a leaf in the wind. Get up."

When you, overcoming the pain in your wrists and the weakness in your legs, took his hand, he lifted you to your feet with an ease you'd never expected. You staggered, and he instantly caught you by the waist, keeping you from falling. Your head spun. There was a ringing in my ears.

He looked at you, his head tilted slightly to the side. His gaze lingered on your shirt—the one torn all the way to your chest. Goosebumps peeked through the hole.

Negan sighed. Not irritated. More like tiredly.

"No way," he said, as if making a decision. "This won't do."

He quickly shrugged off his leather jacket. It was heavy, smelling of gunpowder and leather. There were traces of blood on the lining—not his, of course. He held it out to you, holding it aloft.

"Take off that rag and put on my jacket."

His eyes narrowed.

"I won't let you wander around the Sanctuary like this. You don't want every idiot looking at you like a piece of meat again, do you? No? Then do as I say."

He waited. With trembling fingers, you fumbled for the hem of your torn T-shirt. He didn't turn away. He stood there, staring, completely indifferent, as you pulled it over your head. The cold air brushed your skin. You grabbed his jacket—heavy, oversized. It smelled of him, and the scent instantly enveloped you like a second wind. You pulled it on, buttoning it only one button because your fingers still wouldn't obey. The jacket was several sizes too big, slipping off your shoulders, but it was warm. And safe.

Negan nodded approvingly, examining you in his clothes. A barely noticeable, satisfied smile tugged at his lips.

"That's better," he said. "At least I won't have to look at this mess and blush for my own people. Otherwise, they'll think I don't know how to look after prisoners. That's unpleasant."

He took a step closer, literally half a step, and now you were standing so close you could feel his breath on the top of your head. He looked down at you, and there was something in that look beyond cruelty. Some strange, twisted form of care.

He nodded toward the hallway.

"You're coming with me."

It wasn't a proposal.

"Right now. You're not coming back here. I'm not leaving you here, in this dump where any idiot could break in at any minute. It was a mistake putting you here. I admit it."

He paused, giving you time to process.

"You're going to my quarters. They're upstairs. There's a soft bed there, not that filthy mattress. There's a good shower, hot water, soap. Clean clothes, sheets. No rats, no Davids."

Negan stepped toward the exit without turning around, but paused in the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder, squinting one eye.

"You don't think you have a choice, do you? You're coming with me because I said so. But if you want, consider it a favor. I'm taking you out of this stinking crypt. I'm giving you food, water, a chance to wash this filth and blood off yourself. And yes, if you behave, I might even let you sleep. Real sleep. Not in a corner where someone's screaming will wake you."

He turned fully toward you, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He crossed his arms over his chest. His face was serious.

"But remember one thing. You're a prisoner. You're not a guest. If you try to escape, I'll catch you. If you try to hurt me while I'm sleeping, I won't kill you. I'll just tie you to the bed for a week, and feed you only every other day. And you'll wonder if it was worth it. If you try to hurt yourself, I'll make you wish you were never born. I'm not joking."

He paused.

"But if you obey, if you don't cause me any trouble, I'll treat you... well. As well as possible in this new world. You won't die in agony. You'll eat. You'll sleep warm. You might even laugh from time to time. And as for Rick..."

Negan chuckled, and a shadow of his former, brazen confidence flickered in his grin.

"Well, we'll come to an agreement with Rick. He'll give you the supplies because he wants you to live. Or because he's afraid I'll do something to you he can't fix. But honestly, I haven't decided yet. I'm going with the flow. And it's in your best interest, baby, for me to be in a good mood."

He extended his hand. Palm up.

"So. You're coming with me. The easy way. Are you taking my hand, or should I carry you? Because I can carry you. But believe me, looking like this, in my jacket, in my arms—it'll be quite a sight. My guys will think I've won you back."

He paused and tilted his head slightly to the side, waiting. A dim light flickered in the corridor behind him, and the distant sounds of the Sanctuary echoed—voices, laughter, the clanking of metal. He waited. Patiently. Like a predator who knows its prey won't go anywhere.

"Well?" His voice dropped a little lower, a little softer. "Are you coming? Or should I leave you here, in this cell, with David's stench and a pile of his shit? Choose. But choose quickly."

He wiggled his fingers slightly, invitingly. A gesture that could be both a command and an invitation.

A hint of curiosity flickered in his gaze as he watched your reaction, the way you moved, the way you breathed, the way you looked at his hand. It was as if he were reading you like a book. And the book, for now, seemed to suit him.

"Shower, bed, food," he listed, raising an eyebrow slightly. "A clean shirt. I can even give you a couple of my T-shirts—they'll feel like dresses, but damn, at least they're not torn. And I'll personally bring you dinner. Consider it an apology for that bastard touching you."

He chuckled and added, almost in a whisper:

"I'm caring, you know. When I want to be."

His hand was still outstretched toward you. Waiting. The corridor behind him stretched into darkness, filled with the unknown. But the cell behind you was even darker. And it stank of carrion, sweat, and horror.