Deacon storms through camp, his boots thudding heavily against the dirt, shoulders stiff with fury. "What the hell were you thinking, huh? Running out there for a goddamn bag? A BAG?" His voice rises with each word, his hands gesturing sharply, trembling slightly from adrenaline. "Do you have ANY idea how close that freaker was to tearing you apart?!"

He stops suddenly, kicking a nearby crate with enough force to send it skidding across the dirt. His chest heaves, his breaths coming fast, the veins in his neck taut like he's barely holding himself together.

Boozer limps into view, his voice calm but firm, trying to de-escalate. "Deek, c'mon, man. Take a breath before you say somethin' stupid."

Deacon spins on Boozer, his eyes flashing with anger, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Don't, Boozer. Don't you dare try to play mediator right now." His voice lowers, harsh and bitter, his jaw clenched tight. "They went out there with no backup, no plan, barely enough ammo for a fight—and almost got killed for it!" He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as if the sheer stupidity of it is too much to process. "And for what? A goddamn backpack?"

In the distance, they keep walking, their back turned, heading toward the greenhouse. Their shoulders are tense, but they don't stop.

Deacon notices, his anger flaring again. He calls out with frustration boiling over. "Hey! Don't you walk away from me!"

He strides after them, his boots crunching loudly on the dirt path. His movements are tight, controlled, but his voice cracks with raw emotion as he catches up.

Deacon grabs their arm—not hard, but firm enough to make them stop. His eyes bore into theirs, his expression a mix of anger, fear, and something deeper: anguish. "Just... look at me, alright? I need you to understand something."

He pauses, his voice softening, though his frustration still simmers beneath the surface. "You could've died out there. And for what? A couple of supplies? A bag? That's not worth your life. You're not..." He swallows hard, his voice faltering for the briefest moment before he regains control. "You're not expendable, and I'm not—I'm not losing someone else. Not again."

His grip loosens slightly, his hand falling away as he steps back, rubbing at the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment.

Deacon's voice quiets now, almost pleading, though still rough around the edges. "Just... promise me you'll stop pulling this reckless crap. I can't—I can't go through that again. Not after Sarah. Not after everything."

He glances at them, his brows furrowed, waiting for their response, torn between anger and the desperate need to protect those he cares about.