Chapter Text
They were running out of water.
Elena knew it before anyone said it. She always knew it first, because she was the one who counted the barrels, who washed the tools, who watered the crops until the soil turned dark and heavy beneath her fingers. She noticed the way the rain barrel sounded hollow now when the wind pushed against it, the way the pump coughed instead of flowing. Still, she kept her mouth shut, because speaking it aloud only meant one thing.
"Elena" Marta said, already looking at her.
The others were gathered near the barn, half-hidden by the sagging wood and the netting they'd draped over the roof to break up the shape from afar. Five people in total. Five shadows pretending to be a farm. Five survivors pretending this was temporary, that one day they'd stop counting bullets and seeds and heartbeats.
"Elena," Marta repeated, firmer. "Take the buckets. River run."
Of course.
Elena wiped her hands on her trousers and nodded. She didn't argue. She never did. Being the youngest meant being the fastest, the lightest, the most expendable. It meant being told you healed quicker, that you bounced back, that you still had energy. It meant they didn't look at you when they said things like if something happens.
She grabbed the two metal buckets from where they hung on a nail, the clink of iron sounding too loud in the quiet. Tomas handed her the rifle without meeting her eyes. It was old, the strap frayed, but it fired straight. She checked the magazine out of habit—three rounds left.
"Be quick" he said.
"I'm always quick" she replied, forcing a small smile.
No one smiled back.
She slipped through the gap in the fence, careful to pull the wire back into place behind her. The farm vanished almost immediately once she stepped into the tall grass, swallowed by overgrowth and deliberate neglect. They'd chosen the place because it didn't look worth raiding. Half-dead fields. A collapsed shed. Crops hidden between weeds. Survival disguised as failure.
The path to the river was one she could walk blindfolded by now. Down through the trees, past the burnt-out car half-sunk into the mud, over the shallow ditch where frogs still lived, somehow. The world was quieter these days, but never silent. Wind through leaves. Distant birds. The constant, low hum of insects.
Elena walked with her shoulders tense, rifle resting against her chest, buckets knocking softly against her legs. She scanned constantly, eyes moving, ears straining. She'd learned the difference between a branch snapping under an animal's weight and under a human foot. She'd learned how infected moved, how they dragged or sprinted, how their breath sounded wrong.
She'd killed infected before. Normal ones.
The thought flickered through her mind as it always did. Normal infected. Fast, screaming, mindless. Dangerous, yes—but predictable. You shot them, they fell. Or you didn't, and you ran.
She had never faced an alpha.
The river came into view through the trees, a strip of dull silver cutting through the green. Relief loosened something in her chest. Rivers meant life. Clean water, fish if you were lucky, a place where the world still felt almost like it used to.
She knelt at the bank, setting the rifle down within reach, and dipped the first bucket into the current. The water was cold, biting at her fingers, but clear. She filled both buckets slowly, careful not to splash too much. Noise carried.
As she worked, she felt it—the prickle at the back of her neck. That instinct that had kept her alive this long. She froze, breath held, listening.
At first, she heard nothing unusual. Just the river. Then—
Movement.
Not fast. Not frantic.
She turned her head slowly, heart beginning to pound, and that's when she saw him.
He was crouched at the water's edge further downstream, partially hidden by reeds. Massive, even in that position. His back was to her, muscles shifting beneath scarred skin as he dipped his hands into the river again and again, scrubbing at them like the water could erase something.
His hands were red.
Blood smeared his fingers, his palms, streaked up his forearms. It darkened the water around him in thin, drifting ribbons.
And he was naked.
Completely.
Just like the stories. Like the footage people whispered about, like the images burned into the collective fear of survivors everywhere. The alpha infected didn't wear clothes. They didn't need to.
Elena didn't think. She reacted.
The buckets slipped from her hands, hitting the ground with a metallic crash that sounded impossibly loud. Water spilled into the dirt, soaking into the earth.
She grabbed the rifle and raised it, aiming straight at his back.
"Don't move" she breathed, though she knew how useless the words were.
Samson heard her anyway. He turned his head slowly, then shifted his weight and stood.
Elena's breath caught.
He rose to his full height, towering, broad shoulders rolling back, spine straightening until he loomed above the riverbank like something carved out of bone and muscle. His body was marked with old wounds—slashes, burns, scars that spoke of bullets and blades and things that should have killed him. His chest expanded with a deep, controlled breath.
An alpha.
Her hands began to tremble.
She tightened her grip on the rifle, knuckles white, finger hovering near the trigger. She had shot infected before without hesitation, without thought. This was different. He wasn't charging. He wasn't screaming.
He was looking at her.
His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unsettlingly focused. Not empty. Not rabid. Curious.
Like she was something new.
"Don't" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
He took one slow step back from the water, then stopped. He didn't bare his teeth. Didn't snarl. He tilted his head slightly, studying her, the fallen buckets, the weapon shaking in her hands.
Blood still dripped from his fingers, falling into the river in steady drops.
Elena swallowed hard. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it. This was the moment. The moment where alphas killed you. Where they tore you apart, fast and brutal.
But he didn't move.
The silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.
She became acutely aware of everything—how exposed she was, how close the tree line suddenly felt, how the safety was miles away. She was aware of the sun catching on the water behind him, outlining his silhouette in pale gold. A monster, framed like something almost... human.
Her finger brushed the trigger.
If she missed, she was dead.
If she hit him and it didn't matter, she was dead.
If she killed him—
She didn't finish the thought.
Samson blinked.
It was such a small thing, but it shattered something inside her. Infected didn't blink like that. Not slow. Not deliberate.
He lowered his hands slightly, palms open, blood-smeared fingers relaxed at his sides. His chest rose and fell, breath deep and even.
A sound escaped his throat.
Not a scream.
Not a roar.
Something rough and broken, halfway between a growl and a word.
Elena felt tears sting her eyes, unbidden. Fear, yes—but also confusion. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Alphas were death. Legends. Nightmares.
And yet he just stood there, watching her as if waiting.
Her arms ached from holding the rifle up. Sweat slid down her spine despite the cool air. She didn't lower the weapon, couldn't—but she didn't fire either.
"Go" she whispered, voice shaking. "Just... go."
Samson didn't understand the words. Or maybe he did, in some distant, fractured way. His brow furrowed, the muscles of his face tightening as if he were trying to remember something he'd lost.
He took one cautious step forward.
Elena sucked in a sharp breath and jerked the rifle higher, the barrel wavering.
"Don't," she said again, louder this time. "Please."
He stopped immediately.
That did it. That broke her composure more than anything else. He stopped. Responded. Like he'd heard not just the sound but the fear behind it.
The river rushed on beside them, indifferent.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Predator and prey locked in a strange, fragile standoff that didn't fit the rules of the world anymore.
Samson's gaze flicked briefly to the buckets on the ground, then back to her. Another sound rumbled in his chest, quieter this time. Almost thoughtful.
Elena realized, with a sudden, chilling clarity, that he wasn't deciding whether to kill her. He was deciding whether she was a threat.
Her arms trembled harder, exhaustion and terror catching up to her. She didn't lower the rifle—but she didn't raise it again either.
And Samson, the alpha infected the world feared, stood naked and bloodstained by the river, simply watching her, curiosity written across his face.
—
Elena didn't remember deciding to lower the gun.
It happened slowly, almost without her permission, the barrel dipping a fraction at a time as her arms gave in to the tremor running through them. Her shoulders burned, her fingers numb from gripping the rifle too tightly for too long. She told herself it was just fatigue. That was easier than admitting the truth.
He wasn't acting like an infected.
Samson stood where he was, unmoving, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Not hunger. Not rage. Attention. Focused, unsettling attention. The kind that made her feel seen.
She swallowed and forced air into her lungs. "I said... don't" she murmured again, softer now, almost involuntary.
His head tilted.
Just slightly. The movement was slow, controlled, as if he were testing the idea of it before committing. His eyes stayed locked on her face, tracking the way her mouth moved, the sound of her voice. He didn't understand the words—she was sure of that—but something about the tone reached him. Caution. Fear. A plea.
Impossible, she told herself. He was infected. An alpha. A beast. And yet. Her gun lowered another inch.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, panic flaring immediately. What are you doing? Every instinct screamed at her to raise it again, to shoot while she still could. The world had taught her that hesitation got you killed.
But Samson didn't advance.
If anything, he seemed to relax. Not fully—there was still coiled tension in him, a readiness she could feel even from several meters away—but his shoulders dropped a fraction. His hands unclenched. Blood-dark fingers flexed once at his sides.
Elena's breath came out shaky. She became painfully aware of how small she was compared to him. How easily he could cross the distance between them. How the rifle, suddenly heavy in her hands, felt like a thin illusion of safety.
"You're... not attacking" she whispered, disbelief threading through her fear.
His brow creased, deep lines forming across his forehead. The expression looked almost like concentration. As if he were trying to pull meaning from the sound of her voice, from the rise and fall of it, even if the words themselves were nothing.
Another sound rumbled in his throat. Not loud. Not threatening.
It was rough, broken, unfinished—like the echo of something that had once been human and hadn't entirely died.
Elena flinched despite herself. Her finger twitched near the trigger, instinct screaming again. Samson noticed. His eyes dropped briefly to the gun, then back to her face. He froze completely.
She stared at him.
That—that—was not normal.
Infected reacted to movement, to noise, to blood. They didn't read body language. They didn't adjust. They didn't stop themselves mid-action because a human's fear spiked. Her mind raced, trying to force this moment into something that made.
She lowered the rifle fully, letting it hang against her thigh, though she didn't sling it over her shoulder. Not yet. Her hands shook openly now, no longer masked by tension.
Samson watched the motion intently. When the gun dropped, he exhaled—a deep, slow breath that expanded his chest and softened his stance even more. The sound was unmistakably... relieved.
Elena felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"You understand" she said quietly. "Not the words. But... me."
The idea terrified her more than the alternative.
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't. Instead, he shifted his weight, bare feet sinking slightly into the damp earth. She noticed then how careful his movements were, how deliberate. This wasn't the frantic, jerking motion of infected on the hunt. This was controlled. Measured.
Curious.
She took a hesitant step forward.
The grass whispered under her boots, loud in the stillness. Her pulse spiked instantly, breath catching in her throat. She watched him closely, every muscle ready to bolt.
Samson stiffened—but didn't retreat. His spine straightened, height seeming to increase as he reasserted his presence, but he didn't lunge. He didn't snarl. His gaze followed her step with almost... fascination.
Elena stopped.
They stood like that, a few meters closer now, the space between them charged and fragile. She could see him more clearly—every scar, every mark carved into his skin by years of violence. He smelled of iron and river water, of blood and earth. There was something raw about him, something unfinished.
A beast, yes. But beasts didn't hesitate like this.
She took another step. This time, he mirrored her. Just one step forward. Slow. Careful.
Her heart leapt into her throat. She raised her free hand slightly, palm open without fully realizing why. A universal gesture. Stop. Wait.
He stopped.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her knees threatened to buckle.
"You're... responding" she breathed. "You're actually responding."
Samson's eyes flicked to her raised hand. His own lifted a fraction, then fell again, as if the idea had crossed his mind and then slipped away. Frustration flickered across his face—an emotion so human it made her chest ache.
He made another sound, harsher this time. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding briefly before he forced himself still again.
Elena swallowed hard. She could feel curiosity pushing against her fear now, dangerous and compelling. She hated herself for it—and yet she couldn't stop.
She took another step closer.
The distance between them shrank to something intimate, something terrifying. Close enough that she could see the subtle movement of his pupils, the way his nostrils flared as he breathed her in. He tilted his head again, studying her like she was a puzzle he didn't quite know how to solve.
"You're not going to hurt me" she said, more like a question than a statement.
Samson's gaze dropped to her chest, then lower, to the rifle hanging uselessly at her side. Then back to her eyes. He shook his head once, a short, sharp motion.
Elena froze.
Her breath left her in a rush. "No," she whispered. "You're saying no."
It didn't matter that the gesture could mean anything. In that moment, it meant everything.
She let out a shaky laugh that bordered on hysteria. "This is insane," she murmured. "You're infected. You're not supposed to—"
Her voice broke.
Samson's shoulders tensed at the change in her tone. He leaned forward slightly, as if pulled by it, eyes narrowing with something like concern. His hand lifted this time, hovering uncertainly in the air between them, fingers curling and uncurling.
Elena stiffened but didn't move away.
"It's okay," she said automatically, voice softening without her meaning to. "I'm okay. Don't—don't touch."
He stopped instantly, hand dropping back to his side.
She stared at him, heart hammering. The pattern was undeniable now. He didn't understand the language—but he understood her. The cadence. The emotion. The meaning beneath the sound.
Like a dog, a voice whispered cruelly in her head.
No.
She rejected the thought immediately. Dogs didn't look at you like this. Didn't struggle like this. Didn't wear frustration and restraint so plainly across their faces.
She was close enough now that she could see the dried blood beneath his nails, the way the water had failed to wash it all away. Her gaze flicked to his hands despite herself.
"Do you...remember anything?" she asked before she could stop herself.
The question hung between them, absurd and heavy.
Samson followed her gaze to his hands. His fingers curled slowly into fists. His jaw tightened. Something dark passed through his eyes.
He shook his head again.
Elena frowned. "You don't remember" she whispered.
He made a low sound in his chest, almost a whine, and looked away briefly, as if the river suddenly held answers he couldn't reach. When he looked back at her, there was something raw there. Exposed.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Against every instinct she had, she stepped closer still, closing the distance until there was only a meter between them. She could feel his body heat now, radiating off him in waves. He was massive up close, overwhelming, his presence pressing in on her senses.
Yet he didn't move. Didn't attack. Didn't run.
They stood there by the river, two creatures from opposite sides of a broken world, staring at each other in silence. Elena felt something shift inside her, something she couldn't name. Fear, yes—but layered with something else. Awe. Pity. Curiosity.
Connection.
"This can't be happening" she murmured.
Samson watched her mouth move, eyes tracking every subtle shift of expression. He leaned in just slightly, drawn by the sound of her voice, by the softness creeping into it. His breath brushed her face, warm and steady.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, she raised her hand again, slowly, deliberately. This time not to stop him—but to bridge the space between them. Her fingers trembled violently as she extended them toward his arm, stopping just short of touching.
He looked at her hand, then at her face.
She nodded once, barely perceptible. "It's okay" she whispered.
Samson hesitated.
Then, with infinite care, he leaned forward until her fingertips brushed his skin.
He flinched at the contact, a sharp intake of breath escaping him, muscles jumping beneath her touch. His skin was warm. Real. Scarred and solid and undeniably alive.
Elena's breath hitched.
For a moment, everything seemed to pause—the river, the wind, the world itself holding its breath.
Samson didn't pull away.
He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back at her, eyes wide with something like wonder. Another broken sound escaped his throat, quieter than before.
Elena swallowed, tears blurring her vision. "You're not a beast" she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "You're... something else."
Samson didn't understand the words. But he understood the truth in her voice.