"I made another mistake, thought I could change,

Thought I could make it out

Promises break,

need to hear you say

You're gonna keep it now

I miss the way you say my name

The way you bend, the way you break

Your makeup running down your face

The way you touch, the way you taste …

When the curtains call the time

Will we both go home alive?

It wasn't hard to realize

Love's the death of peace of mind"

"The Death of Peace of Mind" - Bad Omens

The apartment was dim, shrouded in pre-dawn shadows that stretched long and jagged across the walls. The air felt heavy with anticipation, each movement deliberate and cautious as they gathered their things. No one spoke, the weight of what lay ahead settling over them like a storm cloud. They moved quietly, their footsteps muted against the creaking wooden floors.

Daryl strapped his morning star to his belt, his movements stiff and methodical. Isabelle lingered near Laurent, gently brushing his hair back as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. Carol stood by the door, adjusting her pack, her eyes flicking between Daryl and Isabelle.

Codron was already in the street below, keeping a watchful eye out for any trouble that may stumble into their path.

Daryl turned toward Isabelle, his voice low but firm. "You're comin' with us to the hippodrome," he said.

Isabelle blinked, taken aback. "I thought—"

"You and Laurent can ride back with the Montmartre people," he interrupted. His tone brooked no argument, his eyes steady on hers. "I'm not leaving you to stay here alone."

Isabelle hesitated, glancing at Laurent. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's the best option we've got," Daryl replied gruffly. "Just grab your stuff. We're leavin'."

Carol glanced at Isabelle, giving her a faint nod. "It's better if we all stick together."

The group stepped out into the chilly early morning air, the sky above them still cloaked in darkness. Their breaths puffed out in visible clouds as they moved quickly through the narrow streets. The sound of their footsteps on the cobblestones and the rustling of their coats were the only noise, every shadow seeming to shift and stretch with an eerie intent.

The journey to the hippodrome was uneventful, but the weight of what lay ahead bore down on them. By the time they reached the racetrack, the faintest traces of light had begun to bleed into the horizon, turning the edges of the world into a muted gray.

When they arrived, the racetrack loomed like a ghostly relic, its once-grand structure now a skeleton of its former glory. The faint whistling of wind through the overgrown grass was the only sound as they approached the small plane parked on the cracked tarmac.

Ash was already there, crouched near the landing gear, his fingers smeared with grease as he tightened bolts and muttered curses under his breath. The plane's nose pointed eastward, as if straining toward the promise of escape.

The group moved toward him in silence, their steps cautious. Ash glanced up briefly, his expression sour but focused. "You're late," he grunted, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Sun ain't even up yet," Daryl shot back, his tone clipped as his eyes swept the area.

As the group approached, Carol stepped toward the plane, her eyes scanning the supplies Ash had gathered. Her fingers brushed against the worn metal of the fuselage as she peered through the open door. Her gaze landed on something tucked behind the pilot's seat, and she reached for it.

She glanced at Daryl, who was scanning the area with practiced precision, his gaze lingering on every potential hiding spot. With a quiet sigh, she stepped closer to him, holding out the object she had carried all the way from Maine.

Daryl's eyes flicked to her, narrowing slightly.

"Figured you might want this back," she said softly, her tone laced with something unspoken.

Daryl froze, his eyes locking onto the crossbow in her hands. For a moment, his face was unreadable, but as he reached out and took it, there was a flicker of something raw in his expression—relief, maybe, or gratitude.

"Where'd you find it?" he asked, his voice rough.

Carol smirked faintly. "Took it off some guys in Maine. Figured it belonged with you."

Daryl nodded, his fingers curling around the grip. "Thanks," he muttered, testing the familiar weight of it in his hands before slinging it over his shoulder. The weight of it felt right, like an extension of himself that had been missing for too long.

As they quietly worked to prepare the plane, the horizon began to lighten, the first rays of dawn spilling over the edges of the racetrack. The air grew heavier as Montmartre's trucks arrived, their engines cutting through the stillness like a warning. A tall man that Daryl recognized from the rooftop community stepped out of the lead vehicle, his face drawn and serious. Behind him, several others began unloading gas cans and crates of supplies from the backs of the trucks, working quickly but carefully as they moved towards the plane.

The horizon began to glow softly with the first rays of dawn, casting a pale light over the racetrack as the final preparations for the plane came together. The quiet rustle of movement filled the cool morning air as the Montmartre men worked efficiently, unloading gas cans and securing the supplies Ash had meticulously packed into the small aircraft.

Isabelle stood with Laurent at the edge of the activity, her arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders. Laurent's wide eyes flicked between the plane and the surrounding shadows, his brow furrowed with worry. Isabelle stroked his hair absently, her own gaze distant and conflicted.

Daryl approached them, his steps deliberate, the weight of his decision pressing on his chest. He looked between Isabelle and Laurent, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally spoke.

"Listen," Daryl said, his voice low but steady. "There's somethin' you need to know."

Isabelle's brow knit together, and she straightened slightly, sensing the shift in his tone. "What is it?" she asked, her voice cautious.

Daryl's gaze dropped to Laurent for a moment before settling back on Isabelle. "You and Laurent… you're the ones goin' on that plane."

"What?" Isabelle's voice sharpened in shock, her grip tightening on Laurent instinctively.

Laurent's head snapped up, his confusion turning quickly to panic. "No! We're not leaving you and Carol!" he said, his voice cracking.

Daryl raised a hand, his expression hard but calm. "Listen to me," he said firmly, his gaze locking with Isabelle's. "Ash is takin' y'all back to America. You'll stay at the Commonwealth. They'll keep you safe. And we'll find another way back."

"No." Isabelle's voice was barely above a whisper, her head shaking slowly as she stared at him. "No, Daryl, you can't..."

"It ain't up for debate," he said, his tone softening slightly but losing none of its resolve. "This is the way it's gotta be. They won't stop trying to find him. You won't be safe here. We'll find another way back."

Isabelle blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that blurred her vision. She opened her mouth to speak, but the distant rumble of engines reached their ears. It was faint at first, like the distant growl of a storm, but it grew louder with each passing second. Daryl froze, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped toward the horizon.

The roar of engines grew deafening, and the first vehicles screeched onto the far side of the tarmac, tires skidding on the cracked ground. They came to a grinding halt near the racetrack's entrance, doors flying open as armed figures began spilling out, their weapons gleaming in the early light.

Daryl raised his crossbow, his sharp gaze scanning the scene. His breath hitched as another low rumble echoed, this time from behind them.

More vehicles.

He swore under his breath. "They're tryin' to box us in." Daryl growled, his crossbow lowering slightly as he scanned the scene. His eyes darted to Isabelle, Laurent, and Carol. "Get inside the shed."

Isabelle hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting between Daryl and Laurent.

"What about you?" Isabelle asked, her voice tense.

"I'll be right behind you," he snapped. "Go!"

Carol grabbed Isabelle's arm, her grip firm as she urged her toward the shed. "Come on," she said, her voice low but commanding. Laurent clung to Isabelle's side, his wide eyes darting nervously as they hurried toward the small building where Ash had been working on the plane.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of fuel and oil. Tools and parts were strewn across the workbench, and a cot in the corner showed signs of Ash's rough living. Carol shoved the door shut behind them, her breath coming quick as she scanned the dimly lit space.

"Stay low," she ordered, pulling Laurent close.

Outside, Daryl crouched behind a broken-down barrier, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Bullets cracked through the air, ricocheting off the rusted remnants of old fences and vehicles. The Montmartre men scrambled for cover, some returning fire with desperate bursts of their rifles.

"Shit," Daryl hissed under his breath, his knuckles tightening around the grip of his crossbow.

Isabelle crouched near the cot, her arms wrapped protectively around Laurent. His hands clung to her jacket, his face pressed into her side.

Carol peered through a small gap in the shed's wooden walls, her sharp eyes tracking the chaos outside.

Ash came running in from a side door, surveying the room.

"Is the plane ready?" Carol demanded.

"It'll fly," Ash shot back, his tone clipped. "But we won't get it off the ground with them shooting like that."

Isabelle's head snapped up. "Can we do anything to help?"

Carol turned, her expression grim. "Stay here and keep him safe," she said, nodding toward Laurent.

Daryl glanced toward the shed and spotted Carol through the gap in the wood, her eyes locking on him for a split second before she disappeared back inside.

He darted toward the shed, his boots crunching against the gravel. A bullet struck the ground near his feet, sending up a small cloud of dust. He skidded to a halt behind the shed, his breath ragged.

Inside, the door creaked open slightly as Carol waved him in.

Daryl slipped through the narrow opening, quickly scanning the room. His eyes landed on Isabelle, who was still holding Laurent close, her face pale but determined.

"You good?" he asked, his voice gruff.

She nodded, though her grip on Laurent didn't loosen.

"They're everywhere," Carol said, moving to stand beside him. "We won't get this plane off the ground with them out there."

Daryl's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward Ash. "How much longer?"

Ash looked up at him. "Not long. But if you're expecting me to fly through a damn war zone, you're out of your mind."

Daryl's hand clenched around the strap of his crossbow. "We'll figure somethin' out."

Outside, the gunfire continued to erupt, the sound echoing across the open expanse of the hippodrome. Time was running out.

The sound of gunfire rattled through the thin walls of the shed, every crack and echo making the air feel heavier. Isabelle's heart pounded in her chest as she held Laurent close, her arms wrapped protectively around him. She glanced up at Daryl, who was standing near the door, his shoulders squared as if he was already carrying the weight of what he was about to say.

"You and Laurent are going on that plane," Daryl said firmly, his voice cutting through the chaos outside.

Isabelle's eyes widened, her head shaking instinctively. "No… no, Daryl. We can't. We can't leave you here."

Daryl's jaw tightened, and he glanced at Carol, who was standing silently by the window, her expression grim but resigned. "Me and Carol are gonna draw 'em away. Give you time to get in the air."

"Come with me, please, Daryl." Isabelle stepped closer to him, her voice trembling. "I can't go to America without you. I know no one."

"I can't." His voice was steady but tinged with anguish. "There's only room for two more people. And I'm not leaving you here."

"Please…" Her voice cracked, and the word fell apart as she tried to hold back the flood of emotion. She couldn't say more, couldn't find the words to express the desperation clawing at her chest.

Daryl turned to her fully then, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. He stepped closer, his hands coming up to cup her face, his rough palms warm against her skin. His thumbs brushed over her cheeks, wiping away tears she hadn't even realized were falling.

"I'll find you," he said, his voice low but resolute. "I promise."

"Daryl…" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

"I love you," he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to rumble up from deep within his chest. The words hung heavy in the air between them, raw and unguarded.

She froze, her breath catching as the weight of his confession sank in. Her hands came up to grip his wrists, her fingers trembling as they clung to him. "Why say that? Why now?" Her voice wavered, her eyes searching his as tears spilled over and streaked down her face. There was hurt in her tone, almost anger, as if his words had torn her apart even as they held her together.

Daryl's thumbs moved gently over her cheeks, wiping away the tears. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering as if searching for the right words. "Because I don't know if I'll have another chance to. And I need you to know, even if you don't understand."

A sob broke free from her throat, her body trembling as she closed her eyes tightly, trying to stem the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Daryl leaned in, his lips pressing against hers in a kiss that was fierce and desperate, as if it carried everything he couldn't put into words. She clung to him, her hands gripping his arms like he was the only solid thing in a crumbling world. The salt of her tears stung his lips, but he didn't pull away.

When he finally did, his forehead rested against hers for a moment, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto hers one last time, filled with a mixture of determination and sorrow.

Without another word, he turned and headed for the door, his boots crunching against the concrete. Isabelle reached out as if to stop him, but her hand fell back to her side. Her voice broke as she called after him, barely more than a whisper. "Daryl…"

He didn't look back. The door creaked open, and he stepped out into the chaos, the sound of gunfire swallowing him as the door swung shut behind him.

Daryl dove behind a crumbling piece of the grandstand as bullets whizzed past him, the sharp crack of gunfire piercing the air. His fingers wrapped tightly around the gun he'd picked up from one of the bodies sprawled on the ground, the metallic tang of blood and dirt mixing in his nose. He leaned out just enough to fire a few shots toward Genet's advancing men, their vehicles' headlights cutting stark beams through the early dawn light.

Carol emerged from the shadows behind him, her knife in one hand, her gun in the other. She crouched beside him, her forehead already dotted in perspiration as she peered over the rubble. "They're closing in," she said, her voice tight but calm.

Daryl nodded, his jaw clenched. "Good," he growled. "Let 'em come."

Carol gave him a knowing look, her lips pressing into a thin line before she darted out, firing off precise shots that sent a few of Genet's men scrambling for cover. Daryl followed her lead, moving low and fast toward another piece of cover, drawing more of the enemy's fire.

Bullets struck the ground around them, sending up sprays of dirt and gravel. Daryl rolled behind a rusted metal barricade, his breathing heavy but controlled. His fingers tightened on the gun's grip as he reloaded, the sound of the clip sliding into place drowned out by the cacophony of gunfire. His eyes darted toward Carol, who had taken cover behind a crumbling cement pillar. She leaned out, firing off another round before ducking back.

"They're trying to push us back!" she shouted over the noise, her voice cutting through the chaos.

Daryl's lips pressed into a hard line, his eyes scanning the battlefield. "Ain't happenin'," he muttered. His gaze flicked toward the shed where Isabelle, Laurent, and Ash were still hiding.

"Cover me," he growled to Carol.

Without waiting for her response, Daryl surged forward, weaving through the open space as bullets zipped past him. Carol popped up from her cover, firing rapidly to draw attention away from him. He dove behind another piece of cover, slamming his back against it as he caught his breath. The heat of the fight burned in his chest, but his focus remained sharp.

A quick glance over the edge revealed Genet's men advancing, their numbers too many to count. Montmartre's people were scattered, some pinned down behind their trucks, others desperately trying to hold their ground. Daryl spotted one of Montmartre's men falling, clutching his side as blood seeped through his fingers.

The ground seemed to shake as one of Genet's vehicles roared closer, its mounted gun spitting bullets in long, deadly bursts. Daryl ducked low, the rounds ripping through the air above him. One of Monmatre's men unloaded on the vehicle, the gunner's body going lump and thudding to the ground. The vehicle swerved off the pavement and crashed into the tall bushes beside the track.

He gritted his teeth, his frustration boiling as he realized the enemy was tightening their grip.

His eyes darted toward the shed again, catching a brief glimpse of movement near the door. His heart stuttered when he saw Isabelle, her figure illuminated briefly by the plane's headlights as she stepped out, clutching Laurent's hand.

"What the hell are they doin'?" he muttered, his grip on the gun tightening.

Carol followed his gaze, her expression hardening. "They're running out of time."

Daryl's jaw tightened as he pushed up from behind the barricade, his mind racing. He caught Carol's sharp glance before she ducked back under cover, her rifle firing in short, precise bursts. "We gotta clear a path," she barked, her tone resolute.

"Let's go!," Daryl growled, his voice rough as gravel. He rose slightly, taking aim at one of Genet's men who had strayed too far from cover. The shot rang out, and the man crumpled to the ground.

The roar of the plane's engine rumbled to life behind them, a low hum that vibrated in Daryl's chest. Daryl's heart pounded in his ears as his instincts screamed to keep them moving, to get them out of this hell. The weight of every decision, every step, pressed down on him, but he pushed forward with unwavering resolve.

Then the chaos erupted again.

Some of the Guerriers had cut through the center of the field, attempting to flank them on the left. Daryl swore under his breath, firing several shots as he and Carol scattered, finding cover wherever they could. Carol dove behind a toppled section of the grandstand, her gun already snapping off precise shots that sent two Guerriers sprawling.

"They're closing in!" she shouted over the cacophony of gunfire, her voice sharp with urgency.

Daryl ducked behind a rusted piece of track fencing, his crossbow slung over his shoulder. His gaze flicked toward the plane as it began to taxi forward, the propellers spinning faster. His heart hammered in his chest as he aimed and fired, hitting another Guerrier who had ventured too close, but the enemy's numbers kept pressing in.

"Daryl!" Carol shouted again, her voice sharp with urgency.

Before he could respond, an explosion of pain erupted at the side of his head. His vision blurred, the world tilting dangerously as he staggered. A flash of movement caught his eye—one of Genet's men swinging the butt of a rifle with brutal force. It connected again, this time with his temple, and his knees buckled beneath him.

The ground rose up to meet him in a sickening rush. He hit the dirt hard, his crossbow clattering beside him. The sounds around him dulled, muffled as though he were underwater. Gunfire and shouting became a distant hum, his own ragged breathing the only thing he could focus on.

His heartbeat pounded heavily in his ears, the rhythm erratic and disorienting. Blood trickled down the side of his face, warm and sticky as it soaked into his collar. Daryl blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but the world swam before him in distorted shapes and shadows.

Through the haze, he could just make out Carol, her figure moving with frantic precision as she fired at the advancing Guerriers. Her voice cut through the chaos, though the words were lost to him.

A rough hand grabbed his arm, yanking him upward with a force that sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through his skull. He groaned, his body resisting as he was dragged to his knees. The cold barrel of a rifle pressed against the back of his neck, forcing his head forward.

"Don't move," a guttural voice snarled above him.

Daryl's jaw clenched, his breaths coming in shallow pants as he fought to stay conscious. His hands twitched, itching to reach for the knife strapped to his belt, but the pressure of the rifle against his neck stilled him.

In the distance, the plane's engine roared louder, a sound that cut through the fog in his mind. Daryl's gaze flicked upward, his blurry vision catching the faint silhouette of the aircraft beginning to lift off the ground. Relief and dread warred within him, his chest tightening as he realized they were running out of time.

"Get up!" the Guerrier barked, hauling him roughly to his feet.

Daryl stumbled, his legs barely holding him upright as he was shoved forward. His eyes darted toward Carol, who had been forced to drop her gun and was now being restrained by two of Genet's men. Her glare was fierce, her struggle unyielding despite the odds.

They were surrounded.

For the first time in years, a flicker of helplessness crept into Daryl's chest. His teeth ground together, his hands balling into fists at his sides as the Guerriers forced him and Carol toward an open space. The ground beneath them felt like a battlefield graveyard, the air heavy with smoke and the stench of blood.

Above them, the plane ascended higher into the sky, disappearing into the breaking dawn. It was gone. They were gone...

Daryl's stomach churned, a sickening knot twisting in his gut. He forced the thought down, steeling himself as they were shoved onto their knees before a familiar figure stepping out from the shadows.

Genet.