The Governor's hand trembled slightly as he wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes locked onto Merle Dixon. The bullet wound in his shoulder throbbed with every breath, but he refused to let it slow him down. His suit, once pristine, was torn and stained with blood—his own and that of the people who had foolishly trusted him.
The arena had dissolved into full-blown chaos. Screams filled the air as people trampled over one another, desperately trying to flee the slaughter. The mutated, chain-wielding walkers had overrun the pit, and now they were spilling into the stands And yet, Merle was still smiling.
"You look like hell, Phil," Merle taunted, spitting a glob of blood onto the wooden platform where they stood. His grin was lopsided, his lip split from the earlier scuffle with the Governor's guards, but his blue eyes glinted with something dangerous—amusement. "That fancy suit ain't gonna do much for ya when the whole damn town turns against ya, huh?"
The Governor's fingers twitched at his side, his breathing ragged but controlled. Merle had to die. Not just because of his betrayal, not just because he'd put a bullet through his shoulder, but because he wouldn't shut up.
Merle's smirk widened. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" He spread his arms out mockingly, blood dripping from his metal stump. "C'mon, I thought you were good at talkin', Governor." His words dripped with venom. "You been spinnin' your little fairy tales 'bout Woodbury bein' a paradise, but I don't see nothin' but a goddamn burnin' graveyard."
The Governor snapped.
With a roar of rage, he lunged forward, driving his shoulder into Merle's chest and tackling him onto the wooden floor with bone-crushing force. The impact sent both men crashing down, the force knocking the wind from Merle's lungs as his back slammed against the platform. His head cracked against the wood, his vision swimming for a moment before pure instinct took over.
Merle recovered quickly, rolling onto his side and driving his elbow into the Governor's ribs. The Governor grunted in pain but didn't loosen his grip. Their bodies twisted, fists flying, both men fighting for control.
The Governor threw a punch, his knuckles crashing into Merle's jaw with a sickening crack. Merle's head snapped to the side, his teeth clacking together painfully as blood pooled in his mouth.
But he laughed.
The Governor's eyes flared with fury.
"You crazy son of a bitch," he spat, grabbing Merle's throat with one hand and slamming his head against the wooden planks again.
Merle gritted his teeth, his vision blurring for a second before he buckled his hips and shoved his metal stump into the Governor's bullet wound.
The Governor let out a sharp gasp of pain, his grip faltering just enough for Merle to roll them over—now he was on top.
Merle didn't hesitate.
He reared back and slammed his fist into the Governor's face—once, twice, three times. Each blow landed harder than the last. The Governor's head jerked with each punch, blood splattering against the floorboards as his lip split open.
As Merle prepared to strike again, the Governor's fingers found a loose board on the platform. With a snarl, he yanked the splintered wood free and swung it, cracking it against the side of Merle's skull.
Merle staggered, his head snapping back as pain exploded through his temple. He rolled off the Governor, dazed, giving his enemy the opportunity he needed.
The Governor, breathing heavily, scrambled toward the fallen gun. His fingers wrapped around the cold metal, and he turned just as Merle lunged for him again.
Daryl crouched on the rooftop, his body rigid, every muscle tense. His crossbow was steady, his fingers light on the trigger, and his heartbeat a slow, controlled rhythm in his chest. One shot. That's all it would take. One clean shot and the Governor would be dead.
He inhaled through his nose, held his breath, and lined up the sight. The Governor was right there—exposed, vulnerable, too caught up in his rage to realize what was coming.
Daryl had him.
But then—Merle moved.
In a final act of defiance, his brother threw himself at the Governor, grappling him just as Daryl fired.
Daryl's heart lurched as the arrow shot through the air, slicing toward its target. But it didn't land.
Instead of piercing the Governor's skull, the arrow buried itself into the wood of the platform, the force of the impact sending a sharp vibration through the planks. The fletching quivered, the missed shot a cruel reminder that in this one crucial moment, Daryl had failed.
His chest tightened.
Below him, the Governor, his body tense with pain and exhaustion, slowly turned his head. His one good eye, dark and filled with pure hatred, locked onto Merle.
The gun came up.
Bang.
The gunshot cracked through the air, louder than anything Daryl had ever heard.
Merle's body jerked violently, his torso snapping back as the bullet ripped through his chest. His arms, once raised in defiance, suddenly dropped limp at his sides.
For a moment, everything stopped.
The screams from the arena faded. The flickering torchlight seemed to dim. Even the monstrous growls of the walkers, now spreading through Woodbury, became nothing more than a distant hum in Daryl's ears.
All he could focus on was Merle.
His brother stood there, swaying slightly, his breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He blinked down at himself as if his brain hadn't fully registered what had happened. His fingers, shaking, touched the wound at his ribs, coming away drenched in blood.
The sight made Daryl's stomach churn.
"Merle…" he breathed, barely a whisper.
Below, Merle staggered, his knees nearly buckling, but somehow—somehow—he kept himself upright.
The Governor, panting from exertion, forced himself to his feet. His eyes burned with an unreadable expression—contempt, satisfaction, maybe even relief. His injured shoulder hung limp, blood soaking through the fabric of his once-pristine jacket. He exhaled sharply, his breath shuddering with the weight of the night's chaos.
Merle, despite everything, grinned.
His smile was weak, lopsided, the pain clear in the way his lips trembled, but it was there. Defiant.
"Ain't… over yet," he rasped. His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it carried. Even now, bleeding out, standing on nothing but the last stubborn remnants of his own willpower—he wasn't backing down.
Daryl's grip on his crossbow tightened, his fingers trembling, not from fear, but from pure, undiluted rage. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving as he fought the overwhelming surge of emotion that threatened to consume him whole. He wanted to scream for Merle to move, to fight, to get the hell up—but it was too late.
Below, the Governor's lip curled in disgust, his one good eye flicking over Merle's weakened, swaying frame like he was nothing more than a dying animal.
"Yes, it is," he muttered, his voice cold, final.
Daryl's body reacted before his mind did. His arms tensed, his muscles coiled, his crossbow already coming up. But the Governor was faster.
Daryl flinched as the sound cracked through the night. The force of the shot snapped Merle's head back, his body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. His knees hit the ground first, before his torso slumped forward. Lifeless.
His chest felt like it had caved in, his ribs tightening around his lungs, refusing to let air pass. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the chaos around him, the screams, the distant gunfire, the growls of the infected. It all blurred into the background, leaving him standing alone in his own personal hell.
His hands trembled, his fingers slackening around his crossbow. The weight of the weapon, once familiar, comforting, felt foreign in his grip. His calloused fingers no longer felt steady, no longer felt like they belonged to a man who had fought and survived for so long.
His vision blurred, but he didn't blink. He couldn't.
His brother was gone.
Merle's body lay sprawled out on the bloodstained wooden planks, motionless, lifeless, empty. The smirk that had so often curled his lips, that cocky expression that had infuriated and amused Daryl all his life—gone. His sharp blue eyes, always filled with mischief and defiance, were now dull and unseeing. The blood from the bullet wound in his forehead was still fresh, trickling down his face, pooling beneath his head in a dark, expanding stain.
Daryl's fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his own skin, the sting barely registering. His whole body felt numb, like the world had tilted sideways, like everything that had kept him steady had been ripped out from under him.
He wouldn't let that son of a bitch get away.