twd: the last silence

Chapter 92 – "What Am I?"

The final clang of metal rang out across the training yard like thunder cracking open the sky.

Axel's last slash was fast, almost too fast for anyone to follow, and strong enough to knock Michonne onto the dirt. She grunted, rolled back to her feet slowly, but she was smiling. Defeated, but not bitter. It had been a fight worth having.

The small crowd broke into murmurs, but Axel didn't bask in the victory.

He didn't even offer Michonne a hand.

Instead, he turned on his heel and walked—no, strode—straight toward Maggie.

She tensed without meaning to, instinct gripping her like cold fingers. For a second, she didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't speak.

And then Axel stopped right in front of her, hair wild, skin painted with sweat and dust, katana still in his hand like an extension of his body.

"What the hell do you mean—what am I?" he asked, wearing the brightest, most obnoxiously sincere smile she'd ever seen.

Maggie blinked, caught off guard. He'd been so focused during the duel, so in tune with the fight, yet somehow—he heard her?

"You were supposed to be too busy for that," she muttered.

Axel leaned in slightly, teasing. "Maggie girl… I like you."

There was a beat of silence.

He grinned. "Not in that way, don't get all flustered on me."

She scoffed, raising an eyebrow, about to fire back—but he kept going.

"Or… wait… are you disappointed I don't like you like that?" he asked, eyes glinting with mischief.

Maggie opened her mouth—and then shut it. His tone wasn't mocking, not truly. There was no venom, no intent to hurt. Just Axel being… well, Axel. A walking storm of charm and unpredictability.

"Moving on!" he clapped his hands once and spun the katana lightly before resting it on his shoulder. "I like you, Maggie. But damn, you do ask stupid questions sometimes."

He leaned closer, his smile stretching.

"What am I? That's what you said, right?" he asked again, voice softening into something playful and distant.

"Well, love… nobody knows. And that's what makes it so much fuuunnnnn."

He drew out the last word with a boyish laugh, then tapped the end of his blade against his boot and walked off toward the edge of the yard, still humming.

Maggie stood frozen for a second longer—confused, annoyed, and… maybe smiling just a little.

"Crazy bastard," she whispered.

But the question lingered in her chest.

And she still didn't have an answer.

---

Night had fallen over Alexandria, calm and quiet, the kind of silence that only came after a day full of chaos or exhaustion—or in this case, both.

Maggie sat with Michonne on the porch steps of one of the houses, their silhouettes framed by the glow of a hanging lantern. Judith was asleep inside. The rest of the group scattered across the community, trying to find some sense of normal.

But Maggie wasn't at ease. Her mind was spinning, her thoughts trapped in a single loop.

"Who is Axel?" she said aloud, more to herself than Michonne.

Michonne looked over, thoughtful, quiet.

Maggie rubbed her forehead, frustrated. "He's just twenty-one years old, Michonne. Twenty-one. And yet he's... that. Strong. Fast. Cold when he needs to be. Smart as hell. Brutal too."

Michonne said nothing, just waited.

"And not only that," Maggie continued, "Rosita told me that he told her—just casually—that he had a village once. A whole village, Michonne. He built it. Protected it. Said he told them he was using them... and they stayed anyway."

Michonne's brows furrowed slightly.

"Who does that?" Maggie asked. "Who builds a village, leads people, fights wars, manipulates enemies, and still moves like a dancer with a blade? At twenty-one?"

There was a pause. The wind brushed softly past them, rattling the trees.

Michonne leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "He reminds me of someone," she said slowly.

Maggie turned toward her. "Who?"

Michonne met her gaze. "You're not gonna like the answer."

"…Negan?"

Michonne nodded.

"But with a conscience," she added.

Maggie sighed, leaning back. "Great."

They sat in silence for a long while, the night creeping deeper.

Maggie finally spoke again, her voice quieter. "I just want to know what he is, Michonne. What kind of twenty-one-year-old becomes someone like that?"

Michonne didn't answer right away.

But in the distance, they could see Axel alone by the gate, a cigarette in his mouth, quietly sharpening that katana under the moonlight.

He didn't look like a boy.

He didn't look like a man either.

He looked like something made in the fire—and somehow still burning.

---

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