The battered sedan rumbled up the cracked asphalt road, its engine coughing smoke as it lurched through the half-open prison gates. The fading sun bled orange and red across the sky, throwing the long shadows of the fences and towers onto the dusty yard.
Rick stood near the gate, revolver holstered at his hip, watching the approaching vehicle with a narrowed gaze. Beside him, Murphy leaned against a rusted light post, arms crossed, chewing a piece of dry grass between his teeth. His expression was unreadable—half-bored, half-curious.
Carl and Sophia stood a little farther back, each holding an unloaded pistol, standing stiffly as they waited for their next lesson. Lori watched from a distance, arms folded tightly across her chest, her eyes flicking between Rick and the approaching car.
The sedan rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust. Glenn climbed out first, looking exhausted but grinning.
"Brought some company!" he called out.
Daryl stepped out next, moving stiffly, favoring his right leg. Blood caked the side of his shirt, but his blue eyes were sharp, alive with that feral spark that never quite dimmed.
Then came Michonne.
She exited the vehicle smoothly, katana slung across her back, posture poised like a coiled spring. Her face was carefully blank, but her eyes—sharp and assessing—scanned the prison yard and the cluster of survivors gathered at the gate.
Murphy's brow arched slightly. He spit the grass stalk from his mouth and muttered under his breath, "Well, she ain't here for the guided tour."
Rick stepped forward, hands held out slightly from his sides—non-threatening, but firm.
"Who's your friend?" he asked, eyes locked on Michonne.
"Name's Michonne," Daryl answered, tossing his crossbow over his shoulder with a grunt. "Saved my ass back there. She's sharp. Real sharp."
Michonne gave a single nod but said nothing.
Rick studied her carefully, his jaw tight. He glanced at Murphy, who shrugged casually, as if to say, Your call.
Shane stood off to the side, arms crossed so tight it looked painful, his mouth set in a thin line. His gaze burned holes into Rick's back.
Murphy caught Shane's expression and smirked faintly. He knew exactly what was brewing there—resentment, jealousy. The tension between the two men was growing by the hour.
"We'll talk inside," Rick said finally, his voice calm but edged with caution.
Rick led the way toward the mess hall, where the survivors had gathered—Andrea and Amy whispering together, T-Dog helping Glenn limp slightly from an earlier twisted ankle, Lori hovering protectively near Carl and Sophia.
As they walked, Carl glanced up at Rick, gun hanging awkwardly from his belt.
"Dad, are we still gonna practice?" he asked, voice small but eager.
Rick gave a small, distracted smile. "Yeah, son. Soon as we get settled."
Inside the mess hall, the survivors sat scattered around the long, scarred tables. A few Woodbury folks muttered among themselves, casting wary glances at Michonne as she entered.
Andrea, cleaning a pistol at the table, looked up and gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
Amy, less subtle, stared openly, wide-eyed.
T-Dog eased Glenn into a chair, patting him on the back before grabbing a bottle of water from a nearby crate.
Rick motioned for Michonne to sit at one of the tables. She did, slowly, keeping her sword within easy reach. Daryl leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded across his chest.
Murphy stayed back, leaning lazily against a pillar, eyes half-lidded but watching everything with razor-sharp attention.
Rick cleared his throat. "We're grateful you helped Daryl. No question about that. But you gotta understand—we don't bring people in lightly."
Michonne's face didn't change. If anything, she looked even calmer, almost bored.
"I don't expect a welcome mat," she said evenly. "Just not looking to get gutted by runners out there."
A ripple of murmuring passed through the room at the word brainiac.
Carl leaned close to Sophia, whispering something excitedly.
Sophia clutched her pistol tighter, looking serious and proud.
Rick caught it out of the corner of his eye and smiled faintly before schooling his features back into neutrality.
Shane pushed off the wall with a huff, his boots echoing loudly on the concrete floor.
"How do we even know she's tellin' the truth?" he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Maybe she's leading her group right to us. Maybe she's working with other survivors to rob us."
The room went still.
Rick turned to face Shane, his face blank, emotionless. "Daryl would be dead right now if she minded her own business."
"And maybe she was just coverin' her own ass," Shane said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. His hands were loose at his sides, but his whole posture screamed aggression.
Murphy chuckled under his breath—a dry, humorless sound.
Shane shot him a glare. "Somethin' funny?"
Murphy pushed off the wall, walking a slow, lazy circle around the tension crackling between Shane and Rick. His face was the picture of boredom, but his eyes glittered with something colder underneath.
"Nah," Murphy drawled. "Just amazin' how fast you're willin' to shoot your own people in the back if it gets you a few extra seconds of breathin'."
A few of the Woodbury survivors shifted uncomfortably.
Rick stepped between them again, his voice like iron.
"Enough."
Shane clenched his jaw but backed off, muttering under his breath.
Rick turned back to Michonne, meeting her gaze squarely.
"You wanna stay, you pull your weight," he said. "You fight when the time comes. And you don't make trouble."
Michonne's eyes softened—barely—but there was a flicker of something that might have been gratitude.
"I'm used to pulling my weight," she said quietly.
Rick gave a short nod. "Then you're welcome here. For now."
A low buzz of conversation started up again as the tension bled slowly from the room.
Murphy crossed his arms again, surveying the crowd with a knowing smirk. He didn't miss the look Shane shot Rick—the way his lip curled, the way his fists clenched.
This ain't over, Murphy thought grimly.
Later, outside in the prison yard, Rick knelt beside Carl and Sophia, teaching them how to handle their pistols properly.
"Fingers off the trigger till you're ready," he instructed, voice calm but firm. "You breathe out slow when you squeeze."
Carl nodded seriously, mimicking the motion with his unloaded gun. His tongue stuck out slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration.
Sophia followed suit, her face tight with focus.
Murphy watched from a distance, perched on the edge of a toppled picnic table. His face was blank, but there was a flicker of approval in his eyes.
"You're teachin' 'em young," Michonne said, approaching quietly, her arms folded.
Murphy gave a grunt. "In this world? Only way they live."
Michonne watched Carl aim at an old soda can perched on a fence post. He fired—a loud click of the empty chamber.
She nodded, her face grim. "Smart."
Behind them, Shane leaned against the wall, eyes cold, arms crossed.