The days blurred together under the gray weight of survival. The world seemed stripped of color, dulled by exhaustion and the constant drum of unease. Clouds had rolled in two nights ago and never left, hanging like a shroud over the prison. They clung to the razor wire above the yard, heavy and unmoving, and when the wind did stir, it only carried with it the smell of wet stone, rust, and the faint rot of corpses lingering just beyond the fences. The air was thick—humid, still—and the mood among the survivors felt just as oppressive.
Something was brewing.
Murphy felt it.
He sat alone on the upper level of the prison's walkway, one leg dangling over the rusted railing, slowly peeling the label off a dented can of peaches. His fingers worked without thought, nails scraping at the soggy paper, but his eyes were elsewhere. Down below, in the yard, the groups had started to form. Quiet huddles, whispers, stolen glances that told more than words ever could.
At the center of one knot of people stood Shane.
Even from a distance, Murphy could feel the pull of Shane's presence—the way people leaned in just a little closer, the way heads bobbed in agreement to words spoken too low for anyone else to catch. The Woodbury stragglers especially seemed drawn to him, as if the simple certainty in Shane's voice outweighed Rick's caution or Murphy's defiance.
Rick, by contrast, lingered near the far corner of the yard, talking with Lori and T-Dog. His arms were folded across his chest, jaw clenched tight, and though he listened to Lori's words, his eyes never stopped drifting back toward Shane's circle. A man used to being the law could recognize when his authority was fraying.
By the fence, Glenn and Michonne inspected a fresh patch of the perimeter. Michonne crouched low, running her blade-tip along the steel mesh, testing for weak spots, while Glenn kept anxious watch. His shoulders were taut, chin tight. Whatever words passed between them were clipped and quiet, but Murphy could see the worry in their body language.
Murphy exhaled slowly, a bitter little smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "Here we go," he muttered to no one.
That afternoon, the sky finally opened.
It didn't come with thunder or fanfare, just a slow, steady drizzle. Raindrops pattered across the concrete yard and slid down the bars like cold tears. The storm had been threatening for days, and now it wept over the prison with a lazy persistence, soaking everything it touched.
Inside the main cell block, tension was thicker than the damp air outside. Rick paced the length of the room, boots clanging against the grated floor. His restlessness echoed in every step.
Daryl leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes tracking Rick like a wolf following another predator circling the same ground. Murphy sat hunched on a bench, his leg bouncing in restless rhythm, while T-Dog stood near the door with one hand unconsciously resting on the crowbar at his hip. Glenn and Michonne occupied the far side of the room, quiet, watchful, their silence a weight of its own.
Rick finally stopped, dragging a hand down his bearded face, the rasp of scruff loud in the heavy quiet.
"Shane's pushing hard," Rick said flatly. His voice carried the edge of a man who'd been holding too much in. "He's got some of the Woodbury survivors convinced Murphy's a danger to all of us."
Murphy rolled his eyes, throwing up a hand. "Well, he's not wrong. I am a danger. To anything that wants to eat me, anyway."
The faintest huff escaped T-Dog, something between a laugh and a groan, but the tension swallowed it whole.
"It ain't funny," Daryl said. His voice was low, taut as a bowstring. "I caught two of Shane's boys nosing around the supply room this morning. They weren't lookin' for beans."
Murphy tilted his head, a sardonic grin flashing across his face. "What then? Planning to slip something in my food? Or maybe see how sharp their knives feel in my ribs while I'm sleeping?"
Daryl didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence said enough.
Rick finally sank down onto a crate, his elbows braced against his knees, fingers laced tight as if holding himself together by force alone. His blue eyes locked on Murphy.
"I think it's time we start looking at options," he said. "Real options. Somewhere else."
Murphy's brow arched, suspicion narrowing his gaze. "You kicking me out?"
Rick shook his head firmly. "Not like that. But if we can find a place—somewhere with equipment, a lab, a bunker, a military outpost that hasn't been stripped bare—we could make your blood mean something."
Even Michonne shifted at that, her expression breaking for a heartbeat. Her brows drew together ever so slightly, a crack in her mask.
Murphy drummed his fingers on the empty can still in his hand, eyes down. "You're serious?"
"I am," Rick said.
Murphy snorted. "And here I thought the grand plan was just keep me alive until the freaks with the big brains gave up trying to eat my face."
Glenn leaned forward, his voice steady but urgent. "We can't keep hiding here, Murphy. If your blood is the key—then every day we stay, we're wasting time."
Murphy's sharp gaze flicked up. "And what happens when the Prophet finds us on the road? Or worse, when he finds this place while we're gone?"
Michonne's voice was as sharp as her blade. "Then we move smart. Small group. Scout. Secure. That's how we survive."
T-Dog finally spoke, his tone gravel-low, the kind of voice that came from someone carrying weight too heavy for too long. "You're not the only one with a target anymore, Murphy. They'll come for all of us, sooner or later. We either move… or we wait for the gates to fall."
Murphy stood suddenly, the legs of the bench screeching across concrete. He tossed the can into a bucket, the hollow clang echoing like a gavel. Running a hand through his greasy hair, he fixed Rick with a look half challenge, half resignation.
"Alright," Murphy said. "Let's find your damn lab."
That night, the storm broke in earnest.
Rain lashed against the prison walls in sheets, hammering the steel and stone until it seemed the whole world drowned in gray. Lightning split the sky into fractured glimpses—bright flashes that painted the yard in ghostly silver before swallowing it in darkness again. Shadows leapt and twisted in every corner, alive and menacing.
Rick stood under the awning near the front gate, his eyes on the storm. Daryl was beside him, silent for a long while before finally muttering, "He's right, y'know. Shane won't stop. Don't matter if Murphy leaves or stays."
Rick's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching near his cheekbone. He said nothing.
Behind them, the common room buzzed with low conversation, the air thick with suspicion. But Shane's voice rose above the murmur, sharp and insistent.
"I'm not saying we throw him to the freaks," Shane said to the cluster of Woodbury loyalists, his voice carrying even through the rain, "but how long do we keep risking everything for one guy? One guy who might be a damn magnet for those Brainiac freaks?"
Silence followed, the kind that spoke volumes. Eyes darted, feet shifted. No one wanted to be the first to nod in agreement—but no one denied it either.