chapter 58

Chapter 58: A Storm in the Halls

Max walked ahead, his small frame trembling, but he didn't stop. His bare feet padded softly on the cold Sanctuary floor as the two monsters behind him followed — one of wrathful chaos, the other of boiling fury barely contained behind a smirk.

People stepped aside as they passed.

They didn't need to be told.

They felt it.

Like a crack of thunder before the lightning — like a scream in the silence.

A storm was coming.

Axel's katana swayed slightly at his hip. His face was calm, eyes dead. Negan, walking beside him, gripped Lucille like a promise, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

They turned the final corner.

Max stopped.

He raised a shaking hand and pointed to the far end of the room.

Two men sat near a half-empty crate of stolen booze. One was old — grey hair, yellow teeth, and eyes too smug for someone breathing borrowed time. The other was younger, maybe thirty, slumped beside him, drunk and red-faced, chuckling at a joke the old man had just finished.

The old bastard saw Max.

And smiled.

"Ohhh, you came back for more, huh?"

His voice slurred, gross and loud.

"I knew you couldn't get enough of me, baby."

Then his eyes landed on Axel. His smirk grew wider.

"And look at this — brought a new one with ya? Damn, you boys just keep getting prettier."

He stood up, stumbled a little, and staggered over to Axel. The air around him reeked of liquor, sweat, and something far darker.

He reached out, chuckling.

His hand landed on Axel's shoulder.

His fingers began to slide toward Axel's lips, slow and disgusting.

He never got the chance.

There was a sound — not loud. A whisper of steel.

Then a thump.

The old man blinked, confused.

Then he looked down.

His arm was gone.

Gone at the elbow — sliced clean.

Blood sprayed in a wide arc.

The pain hit a moment later.

He opened his mouth to scream—

Axel sighed.

"God damn it," he muttered as he flicked blood off the edge of his blade.

"I just cleaned this sword."

The old man crumpled to his knees, shrieking.

Negan leaned in close, watching with narrowed eyes and that dangerous smirk pulling at his lips.

"You sick motherfucker," he said casually.

"Didn't I say the rules were clear?"

The younger man tried to bolt — but Lucille was already swinging.

With a wet crack, his skull caved in. He dropped like a sack of meat.

The old man didn't have time to beg. Axel's katana slid through his neck like butter. One clean stroke.

Silence.

Max stared. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

Then Negan turned to him, voice low and calm for once.

"Ain't nobody gonna touch you again, kid."

Axel knelt beside Max, cleaning the blade with the shirt of the dead man. He looked the boy in the eyes.

"If anyone tries… you come find me."

Max nodded, tears threatening, but he held them back.

Behind them, the crowd that had gathered said nothing.

But they all heard it.

The rules had changed.

And the storm had a name.

Axel.

—

The Sanctuary's meeting room was thick with tension.

Negan sat at the head of the long, scarred table, Lucille lying in front of him like a queen resting on her throne. His fingers drummed lazily against the wood, but his eyes were sharp—cutting through the air, slicing through the whispered arguments rising among his so-called higher-ups.

They were talking. Arguing. Bickering. Like crows over a carcass.

About what happened.

About Axel.

About the massacre.

Negan didn't say a word. Not yet.

Behind him, Axel sat slouched in a steel chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, and—

Eyes closed.

He was asleep.

Actually asleep.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his body was at peace. His face was blank, expression unreadable, lips slightly parted like a blade resting in its sheath.

And that terrified the room more than if he'd been awake.

Because nobody knew what a sleeping Axel might do when roused. And nobody wanted to find out.

One of the higher-ups—Jonah—was loudest.

"This is bullshit!" he barked. "He killed Simon and half a dozen of our men!"

Negan didn't move.

Jonah continued, emboldened by his own voice.

"That kid is unstable. Dangerous. You let him run wild, and next time it'll be you he puts a blade through—"

Negan finally spoke.

Soft. Slow.

Deadly.

"Finish that sentence, Jonah. Please. I need the laugh."

Jonah froze.

The others went silent.

Negan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He looked at Lucille for a moment, like she was whispering advice. Then he looked up and grinned.

"You wanna know what I saw, when that old fuck touched that kid?"

He pointed a finger toward the door.

"I saw someone who didn't hesitate. Someone who knew exactly what the fuck he was doing. And I liked it."

He gestured lazily over his shoulder at Axel.

"That right there is a sleeping dog with razors for teeth. And lucky for all of us—he's my dog."

A beat.

"Now, you all sit here, jerking each other off about rules and control—Simon was chaos. A disease. And that boy?"

He chuckled.

"He's the cure. Sharp and mean as hell."

Another higher-up, quieter, shifted in his seat.

"And… if he turns on us?"

Negan smirked wider, lifting Lucille with one hand and resting her across his shoulders.

"Then we die. But hell, what a ride it'll be."

Behind him, Axel stirred slightly.

A single eye opened.

Just for a second.

And closed again.

Jonah said nothing else.

No one did.

Because in that room, they all realized something:

The Sanctuary didn't belong to Negan anymore.

It belonged to the sleeping wolf with a sword and a silent smile.

And the only reason they were still breathing—

Was because he hadn't opened his eyes yet.

—

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