Darkness folded around him like the ocean's embrace—heavy, cold, endless. Max Ward didn't know where he was, only that he was falling without moving, drowning without water. His breath came shallow, though he didn't feel his lungs. He had no body, only memory. And that memory pressed against him like the weight of a thousand decisions.
Flashes.
Gunfire.
Rain slamming against corrugated metal. A shout that fractured the air. "Clear the breach!" His body moved, reflexive, efficient. Not Max, not anymore—something trained, something used to killing with purpose. He saw his hands—young, gloved, steady as they leveled a rifle through the dark.
A man burst from cover. Max pulled the trigger before he recognized the eyes. Too late. The man hit the ground.
"Target down."
The voice wasn't his. It came from the radio clipped to his vest. Cold. Unapologetic.
The dream shifted.
Now, he was running—boots pounding through the jungle, mud splashing up his legs. The heat was oppressive, and the trees whispered of ambush. He reached a clearing. His team lay scattered like broken dolls. Smoke curled from a crashed chopper, rotors still twitching in death spasms. He saw a child—brown eyes wide with horror, clutching something in her arms. A doll? No… it was a gun.
Max hesitated.
He blinked, and the world shifted again.
He stood on a rooftop, night air thick with tension. Sniper scope trained on a window three buildings away. Target sighted. Orders confirmed. The crosshairs centered on a man kissing his daughter goodnight. The man turned toward the window—and looked straight at Max.
He didn't pull the trigger.
"Disengage. Mission compromised."
Voices rang in his head.
"You're not a soldier anymore. You're a ghost."
"Echo protocol is clear. We don't exist."
"Execute. Then disappear."
He blinked again.
Now he was back in the alley, dragging someone behind a dumpster. Blood smeared across his gloves. The man was still alive, gurgling. Max looked down, felt nothing.
"It's cleaner this way," someone had told him once.
"No witnesses."
The shadows shifted. He turned.
A mirror.
He saw his own face for the first time.
Younger. Angrier. Colder. A different man.
He reached out, but the reflection reached back first—and gripped his wrist with impossible strength.
Max woke.
Gasping, damp with sweat, knife already drawn from beneath his pillow. His breathing was shallow, heart hammering in his chest like a warning drum.
The farmhouse bedroom was still dark. The low hum of crickets and distant groans of walkers were the only confirmation he was back in reality. No bullets. No orders. No Echo protocol.
He sat up slowly, listening.
The rest of the house was quiet. No one else was awake. His shirt clung to his back, soaked in sweat. He stood, walked to the small basin of water near the window, and splashed cold droplets on his face.
His eyes found the mirror. Not the one from the dream—this one was real, cracked in the corner, smudged with age.
Max stared at himself.
Same dark eyes. Same short, messy hair. The scar above his left brow. The one from a mission that never existed, from a world that no longer lived. Or maybe never did.
"You're dead."
The words echoed again.
Max clenched his fists, feeling the tremor in his hands. It had been happening more frequently—the dreams. They weren't just memories; they were fragments. Pieces of a life too violent, too complicated to fit here.
Not in this world.
This world had walkers.
This world had Rick, Lori, Shane. Carol. Sophia.
Max exhaled slowly, grounding himself.
He walked out onto the porch as the first rays of dawn split the trees. The Greene farm was still quiet. The chickens clucked lazily, and the dew on the grass shimmered. For a moment, he could almost pretend it was peaceful.
Then his eyes shifted to the barn.
He knew what was inside. They all did. No one talked about it yet—not directly—but the tension was there. And Max could feel it. Just like the tension brewing between Shane and Rick. Between secrets and survival.
He could use it.
Max sat on the steps, wiping his blade clean.
He hadn't told anyone where he was from. And he wouldn't. Because in this world, knowledge was power. And Max had plenty of it. He knew how the group fractured. Who lived. Who died. What choices would be made—and who would pay for them.
But the future wasn't fixed. It never was.
He'd already changed something.
Sophia.
She was supposed to die. Turn. Be locked in that barn. But he'd found her. Saved her. Changed the script.
And if he could do that, then maybe… just maybe, he could steer the group somewhere different. Somewhere better.
Or maybe he'd just sink further into the shadow of who he used to be.
The sun crept higher.
Max stood, sliding the knife back into his belt. The others would wake soon. The day would begin. More fences to check. More food to gather. More lies to maintain.
He walked back inside and quietly changed into a fresh shirt. The old one went into the fire. No one needed to see the sweat, the blood-stained dreams, or the memories he still couldn't quite shake.
As the fire flickered, Max whispered to himself:
"One more day."
But the soldier inside knew better.
This world didn't care about days. Only moments.
And every moment was borrowed.