Martin's body went stiff for a fraction of a second before he forced out a sheepish smile.
"There are women and kids in the RV," he said, gesturing vaguely. "I'm new here. I didn't want to disturb anyone, you know? And it's kind of awkward with the ladies and all."
Daryl stared at him.
The RV was cramped, and the bathroom was basically a closet separated by a thin door. Carol, Lori, and the kids were all trying to sleep. A stranger barging in to use the toilet in the middle of the night would be uncomfortable for everyone.
He glanced at Martin's bandaged leg, then waved him off.
"Fine. Make it quick. And don't wander."
Martin opened the RV door and limped toward the convenience store's public restroom.
Lucien threw off his blanket as quietly as possible and crept to the RV's back door. Through the window, he could see Daryl walking his patrol route in the opposite direction. Glenn and T-Dog were on the far side of the gas station. Dale appeared to be asleep in his lawn chair, hat pulled low over his eyes.
Nobody was watching the back of the RV.
He slipped out, using the vehicle's bulk as cover, and pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his bag. He moved quickly, keeping to the shadows despite being invisible.
Martin had disappeared into the public restroom. The door hung crooked on its hinges, and even from outside, the smell was awful.
Lucien approached slowly. He edged closer to the broken window and peered inside.
Martin was crouched in the far corner, completely ignoring the stalls. His injured leg was supporting his weight just fine now. He was prying at a loose floor tile near the wall.
His hand came up holding something wrapped in plastic. He tore the packaging away, revealing a small black walkie-talkie.
Fuck.
Every warning bell in Lucien's head was going off at once. Martin hadn't been lying about everything, but he was working with someone. And if he called whoever was on the other end of that radio...
Wake Rick and Shane? By the time he got back and explained, Martin could've already made his call. The group could be walking into an ambush.
Confront Martin directly? A kid versus a teenager who'd clearly done this before? That was suicide.
Use magic to stop him? But how, without revealing himself?
Martin was raising the walkie-talkie to his mouth, thumb on the transmit button.
Lucien panicked.
His wand was already in his hand. His eyes darted around the restroom, searching for anything he could use. There... Outside the window stood a pile of junk left behind by the gas station's previous owners. Mostly old tires, stacked against the wall.
He used the Levitation Charm.
The magic caught one of the tires and lifted it smoothly into the air. The tire floated upward, then drifted sideways until it hovered directly above Martin's head.
Martin's thumb started to press down on the button.
Lucien released his focus.
The tire fell.
It hit Martin's skull. The walkie-talkie flew from his hand, skittering across the filthy floor. He collapsed forward, his body going limp.
For a moment, Lucien just stood there.
He'd done it. He'd stopped Martin from calling for help. The group was safe.
But Martin wasn't moving.
His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His hands were trembling so badly he almost dropped his wand. He forced himself forward, stepping through the broken door.
He approached Martin's body carefully, wand raised like that would somehow protect him if this turned out to be a trick.
But it wasn't a trick.
Martin was unconscious. Blood matted the back of his hair where the tire had struck him. His breathing was shallow, but it was steady.
He reached out with a foot and nudged Martin's shoulder.
No response.
The walkie-talkie lay a few feet away. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was a cheap civilian model. The channel was set to seven, and the volume was turned low.
He was about to slip it into his pocket when his hand brushed against something inside Martin's boot.
Working quickly, he searched Martin's body. He found a small notebook hidden inside the boot, tucked into a concealed pocket and wrapped in plastic to keep it dry.
The moment he opened it, his blood ran cold.
The first page was a hand-drawn map of the area. It was crude but detailed. Roads were marked. Towns were labeled. Scattered across the page were symbols, some crossed out, some circled, some marked with question marks.
The quarry where their group had been was there. It was circled and marked with a question mark.
He flipped to the next page.
What he saw made his hands shake even harder.
It was a hunting log. Not for walkers, but for people.
Farm off Route 85. 2 men, 1 woman. Dealt with. Supplies: canned food, water, one shotgun.
Cabin by the river. Elderly couple. Dealt with. Supplies: medicine, fuel.
Gas station, Exit 52. Family of four. Too risky. Guns. Skipped.
Nursing home, west side. Multiple survivors. Guards. Firearms suspected. Tough target. Waiting for opportunity.
Nursing home.
The same nursing home where Guillermo and his people were protecting the elderly.
Martin had been planning to attack them. He was probably still planning to, assuming his partners were waiting for his signal.
Lucien felt sick.
These were not thieves or desperate survivors scraping by. They were predators. They had killed families, elderly couples, and anyone they believed they could overpower.
He stuffed the notebook into his pocket along with the walkie-talkie.
He should wake Rick. He should show him the evidence and let the adults handle it.
But then he would have to explain how he had gotten it. He would have to explain why he had followed Martin instead of sleeping, and how he had known to be suspicious in the first place. The Invisibility Cloak would come up. His magic would be exposed.
He couldn't afford that.
Which meant only one thing.
Lucien looked down at Martin. He had to deal with this himself.
The thought made his stomach churn, but he forced the feeling down. This was not murder. This was self-defense. It was the defense of the group. Martin was a threat. That guy was a proven killer. If he let him live, people would die.
Carl might die. Sophia. Duane.
His hand moved to the throwing spike at his belt. It was the same tool he had used to put down walkers. One quick thrust to the base of the skull would be clean and permanent.
He pulled the spike free, feeling its weight.
Just one strike.
But his hand was shaking so badly he could barely hold it.
This was different from walkers. Walkers were already dead. They were monsters, corpses driven by infection. Killing them was a mercy.
This was a person.
This was murder.
He stood there, frozen, the spike in one hand and his wand in the other, staring down at Martin's bleeding head.
He couldn't do it.
And he hated himself for not being able to, but he couldn't.
But he couldn't let Martin live either. He couldn't wake him and hand him over to Rick. And he couldn't risk the group's safety on the hope that justice would be swift.
His eyes drifted up toward the ceiling.
The public restroom was old, and poorly maintained even before the apocalypse. The concrete ceiling was cracked and water-stained, chunks of it already loose from years of neglect and weather damage.
It wouldn't take much.
Lucien raised his wand, pointed it at the worst section of ceiling directly above Martin.
"Wingardium Leviosa," he whispered.
The spell caught the concrete, lifting it slightly, loosening the already-fragile support. Cracks spread like spider webs across the surface.
Then he dropped it.
The chunk of ceiling came down with a crash. More sections followed as the damaged structure gave way. Concrete, rebar, and years of accumulated debris buried Martin's body beneath a choking cloud of dust.
When the collapse finally stopped, nothing remained in view except rubble.
Lucien stood there, staring at what he had done.
Martin wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing. He couldn't be breathing under that kind of weight.
Dark liquid seeped out from beneath the debris. It was too dark to be anything but blood.
He had killed someone.
His legs went weak, and he had to catch himself against the wall to keep from falling.
He had killed a person.
Granted, a human who'd murdered families and was planning to get his group killed, but still a person.
His stomach heaved. He turned away from the rubble pile and vomited in the corner.
This wasn't like the stories. It wasn't like the movies where the hero made the hard choice and walked away without looking back. This felt awful. Like he'd broken something inside himself that could never be fixed.
But he couldn't undo it. He couldn't bring Martin back even if he wanted to.
What was done was done.
After what felt like hours but was probably only a minute, Lucien forced himself to straighten up. He pulled his wand and pointed it at himself.
"Scourgify."
The spell stripped away the dust and grime that had settled on him, along with the tiny flecks of blood left behind when the ceiling collapsed. When he was clean, he tucked the wand away and pulled the Invisibility Cloak tighter around himself.
The walkie-talkie and notebook were in his pocket. He could never show them to anyone, not without explaining how he had come by them.
He took one last look at the pile of rubble. It was what remained of a person who was now just another casualty of the apocalypse.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though he wasn't sure who he was apologizing to. Martin? Himself? God?
Then he turned and walked out of the restroom.
The walk back to the RV felt longer than it should have. Every step was an effort. His legs felt like they were made of lead, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking no matter how hard he tried to control them.
Nobody noticed him slip back inside. The Invisibility Cloak came off, folded carefully and tucked back into his bag. He climbed into his makeshift bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the ceiling coming down.
He had killed a human being.
The thought kept cycling through his mind on repeat.
But the alternative had been worse. If he'd let Martin make that call, people would have died.
This was the apocalypse. There weren't clean choices anymore. Just bad ones and worse ones.
He had made his choice.
He just had to find a way to live with it.