twd: the last silence

Chapter 43: The Face Behind the Fire

They were inside now.

The Nomads led Redd and his thirty men through a narrow path between buildings made of metal, scrap, old world concrete.

People watched from windows. Quiet. Suspicious. Some children played with rocks in the dirt.

But everyone looked armed. Or fast. Or trained.

A small act of war wrapped in peace.

Redd kept the role.

Head low. Feet dragging.

But his eyes—he counted every gun, every man, every blind spot.

Axel said nothing.

Walked at the back.

Dirt on his face. Shadows under his eyes. But his hand never left the hidden fold in his jacket.

Then, one of the Nomads waved his hand, motioned for them to stop.

"You'll rest here," the man said. "Water's coming."

A second later, someone brought it.

Cold bottles.

Fresh.

Real clean.

The group drank slow. Some too fast. A few faked hunger and thirst like they'd been crawling through hell.

Axel didn't touch his bottle. He just stared at the big building in the middle of the hive.

The center.

The core.

After a while, one of the Nomads walked toward that big building. Entered.

The group waited in silence.

Time slowed.

Then… he returned.

And behind him—

Footsteps.

Soft.

Sure.

Axel looked up.

And his heart stopped.

His soul cracked.

The leader of the Nomads wasn't a man.

She was a woman.

But not just any woman.

His old neighbor.

The one who used to wave at him in the morning. The one who used to give his brother Eli candy.

The one who smiled through a broken tooth and played loud music on Saturdays.

The one who lived next door…

…And now wore a black leather coat with blood on the cuffs.

Her face hadn't changed much—just colder.

Tighter.

But Axel knew it.

Every inch of it.

His fingers shook.

This was her.

The one behind it all.

The slaughter.

The massacre.

The death of his mother, father, Eli—

The one who cut his little brother into pieces.

He could see it in her eyes.

That same emptiness.

That same sick grin trying to hide behind calm power.

He bit his tongue. Hard.

The taste of blood filled his mouth.

But he didn't move.

Didn't speak.

The rage inside him grew so heavy it made his hands tremble and his knees almost buckle.

He wanted to scream. To lunge. To bury his blade into her throat and twist until her last breath was a whimper.

But he didn't.

Because she didn't recognize him.

Not yet.

And Axel needed that.

He needed her to stay blind.

Because when the time came—

She'd see him.

Not the boy next door.

Not the scared survivor.

Not the weak, filthy shadow.

She'd see him.

And she'd know—

She made the devil.

....

Alice stepped forward.

The door behind her closed slow.

She walked like a queen. Moved like silk.

But her voice—

It was soft.

Gentle.

Like a mother tucking her children in at night.

"I know the world's been cruel to you," she said, eyes sweeping across Redd and the thirty broken men, "but it doesn't have to be anymore."

Redd looked at her. Then nodded.

"You can stay," Alice said, smiling. "You can work. You can eat. You can be safe."

One by one, the men lowered their heads. The weight on their shoulders slipping off.

Some of them cried.

Even Axel—

He dropped to his knees.

Hands to his face. Shoulders shaking.

Tears.

Real ones?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But they looked real.

He sobbed like a man who finally found a home.

A broken soul who just wanted peace.

Alice walked toward him. Smiling.

She knelt down in front of him, hand gentle, soft fingers brushing the hair from his eyes.

She laughed softly. Sweetly.

Like she cared.

"You'll be okay," she whispered, fingers playing with his long strands. "You're safe now."

Axel didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Her touch burned like fire.

But she didn't know.

She didn't see him.

Not because his face was covered in dirt.

Not because he cried like a child.

No—

Because he wasn't Axel anymore.

The Axel she knew was twenty, clean, kind, with short black hair and a smile that could light up the street.

This…

This was a ghost of that boy.

Long hair, streaked with silver like ash.

Eyes—hollow.

Dead.

Heavy with nights he never slept and things he never said.

His face marked with small scars, twisted by war and rage and time of silence.

Even if he stood up and said, "It's me—Axel,"

She wouldn't believe it.

Because that boy died the day she cut his little brother to pieces.

Axel didn't speak.

Didn't offer a name.

And since she didn't ask—

He let her believe he was no one.

Just another stray.

Just another survivor.

Just another fool looking for peace.

But inside his head—

Inside his chest—

The storm waited.

And every second she smiled?

Every time her fingers brushed his scalp?

He carved her name deeper into his bones.

Not as a memory.

But as a target.

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