twd: the last silence

Chapter 96 – "The Line Between the Dead and the Damned"

They were surrounded.

The woods groaned under the weight of silence, broken only by the wet drag of feet and the whisper of breathless voices.

Walkers moaned and shifted. But not all of them were dead.

Maggie couldn't tell which was which.

Axel could.

He didn't care.

To him, they were all the same—flesh to carve, blood to spill, noise to silence.

"Stay close, Maggie girl."

His voice was soft, but his smile was electric.

Then, the storm began.

Axel moved with no hesitation—he never hesitated. The katana Michonne had given him, once sleeping at his back, now sang through the air. It didn't matter if they were walkers or men wearing their faces—each slash was art, each kill a note in his violent symphony.

He wasn't fighting.

He was dancing.

And he was beautiful in the way fire devours.

Blood spattered across trees, bodies collapsed in a grotesque ballet, and through it all, Axel laughed—quietly, like a man at peace with chaos.

Until he heard it.

A sound that shattered the rhythm.

"A-Axel—"

His head whipped around.

Maggie stumbled.

One of the Whisperers had come close—too close. A blade, rusted and sharp, was buried into her chest. Just left of the heart. One inch deeper, and—

No.

Axel's smile vanished.

He roared.

In five seconds, the woods turned red. His katana carved through bone, through muscle, through whatever dared stand between him and her.

But on his last swing—

Snap.

The blade cracked. Broke.

Fragments of steel flew past his shoulder.

He stood weaponless.

But it didn't matter.

His hands were red. His veins were fire. And his wrath was old.

With a soundless scream, he lunged forward and slammed his fist into the Whisperer's neck—just above the collar.

There was a pop, a crunch, and then—

Silence.

The man's head didn't just come off.

It ripped from the spine, thrown backwards with such force it smacked a tree and bounced once before hitting the ground.

Maggie gasped, her hand gripping the hilt of the knife still in her chest.

Axel was beside her in an instant, catching her as she fell.

His silver hair was wet with blood. His face calm. But his eyes—they were storms, ancient and endless.

"Maggie. Hey. Look at me."

She blinked, her fingers trembling.

"Breathe. You're not dying, not today."

Her breath came in gasps.

"You're insane," she muttered weakly.

Axel grinned.

"Yeah. But you're lucky you're my favorite crazy girl."

Around them, the forest fell still again. The dead laid dead. The Whisperers… were not whispering anymore.

Only Axel remained standing.

And he didn't need a katana anymore.

He was the weapon.

---

The fight was over, but the danger wasn't.

Axel didn't waste time. He lifted Maggie with effortless strength, carrying her like she weighed nothing. Her breath was shallow, her hand pressed to her bleeding chest, and every bump on the forest floor made her wince. But Axel didn't stop until he reached the edge of an abandoned road.

There, half-buried in weeds and time, was a small, crumbling café.

He kicked the door open and walked in like he owned the place. Dust, silence, and ghosts greeted him.

"Perfect," he muttered.

He laid Maggie gently on an old bench and stepped outside. A moment later, she heard something massive scrape against concrete.

Axel returned, wiping sweat from his forehead. He'd dragged a chunk of concrete debris—easily a few hundred pounds—and used it to seal the entrance.

"Okay, Maggie girl," he said with a crooked smile, "you're gonna hate this... but hey, I'm saving your ass, so... deal with it."

He dropped to one knee beside her and opened her backpack.

Water. A first aid kit. Bandages. A needle. A lighter.

He set them all down carefully and rolled up his sleeves.

Then, he took a long drink of water, lit a cigarette, exhaled slow, and looked at her with that unshakable grin.

"Alright. Let's play doctor."

Maggie hissed as he leaned in, inspecting the knife still lodged above her chest.

"Don't you dare touch—"

"Already touching." Axel chuckled, setting the cigarette aside. He poured water over his hands, then used the lighter to sterilize the needle. He scrubbed until his skin practically shimmered.

Then, without warning, he pulled out his own combat knife and cut open her shirt.

"What the hell—!"

"Relax, I've seen a ribcage before. Yours isn't special."

She tried to slap him. Missed.

He caught her wrist gently, setting it aside.

"Listen now. This is something my old man taught me."

His face darkened for just a moment.

"You stay calm. You breathe. You don't pass out, and I don't mess this up. Deal?"

Maggie gritted her teeth and nodded, her face pale but fierce.

Axel leaned closer, listening—not to her, but to her chest. To the way the blood moved. To the rhythm of her breath.

His fingers found the handle of the knife.

"Good news, sweetheart—it missed your heart. Barely. You've got luck. Or maybe just a thick rib cage."

"Take it out," she whispered.

"With pleasure."

He slid the needle into her skin—a local numbing trick he'd learned somewhere between war zones and post-apocalypse chaos. Then, slowly, Axel gripped the knife and began to pull.

Maggie groaned, her fists clenched, her eyes wet.

Axel didn't flinch.

"Almost there, almost—"

A wet pop.

Blood welled, but not a flood.

He tossed the blade aside, wiped his brow, and began cleaning the wound with the focus of a surgeon and the sarcasm of a devil.

"See? Told you I'm good with my hands."

Maggie didn't laugh. But her hand found his wrist.

She didn't let go.

Axel smiled, softer this time. No smirk. Just… something human.

He bandaged her up and leaned back against the dusty wall, lighting another cigarette.

"Get some rest, Maggie girl. I'll keep watch."

And just like that, the café became a battlefield sanctuary.

A place where a devil learned to heal.

---

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