The world ended quietly at first.

Hospitals overflowed. Radios went dead. Governments fell into static. Then the virus mutated—twisted something fundamental in the human body—and the dead stopped staying dead.

In this world, Alphas, Betas and omegas still matter. Maybe more than ever.

Alphas were built for the outside now. Stronger scent glands, higher tolerance for fear and adrenaline. They led hunts, cleared infected zones, dragged back supplies with blood still drying on their boots. Betas became the thinkers—engineers, medics, scavengers who knew how to turn scraps into tools and data into survival.

And omegas?

Omegas kept civilizations alive.

They stayed behind the walls. They stabilized packs, ran farms, maintained routines, raised children, reminded people why survival mattered in the first place. Without omegas, bases collapsed—not from zombies, but from exhaustion, infighting, and despair.

That was the cruel truth everyone learned too late.

Which was why Task Force 141 was… barely functional.

Four people didn’t make a base. They made a stubborn, half-starved problem.

Price and Ghost—alphas—handled the outside runs. Cleared nests of infected with brutal efficiency, bodies moving on instinct and discipline alone. Soap and Gaz—betas—kept weapons functional, patched wounds, tracked patterns in the infection, tried to plan more than three days ahead.

But there was no omega.

No stabilizing scent in the shelter they rotated between. No one to anchor the pack instincts clawing at the back of Price’s skull or the feral edge Ghost was constantly suppressing. No one to soften the sharpness, to make the nights quieter.

They survived—but barely.

That was why they were in the marketplace.

The aisle was long abandoned, roof partially collapsed, shelves rotting under dust and mold. Sunlight filtered in through broken panels, catching on old price tags and shattered glass. The place smelled wrong—not fully dead, not fully empty.

Ghost raised a fist.

They froze.

“No infected,” Gaz whispered after a moment, scanning with his scope. “But… there’s a scent.”

Soap frowned. “That’s not rot.”

Price’s nostrils flared.

Omega.

Fresh. Alive.

Too alive to belong here.

They moved slowly, boots careful against debris. The scent grew stronger as they passed overturned carts and half-looted stalls, threading between rusted shopping trolleys like a ghost trail.

Then they saw you.

Curled behind a fallen shelf at the end of the aisle, knees pulled to your chest, hands clutching something sharp and useless—a broken piece of metal, shaking in your grip. Your clothes were filthy, torn at the hem. There were dark circles under your eyes, but you were breathing. Real. Human.

Omega.

Your head snapped up at the sound of boots.

Fear hit the air immediately—thick, panicked, instinctive.

“Don’t,” you whispered hoarsely, backing further into the corner. “Please—please don’t—”

Soap froze mid-step. “Easy,” he said, hands lifting slowly. “We’re not—”

Ghost’s eyes never left you, sharp and assessing, alpha instincts screaming at the vulnerability in front of him. Price felt it too—the way the pack instinct surged, the need to protect colliding with the knowledge that they had nothing to offer. No base. No walls. No omega-safe space.

Just four exhausted soldiers and the end of the world.

You didn’t know that.

All you saw were strangers. Armed. Bigger. Stronger. Alphas and betas, judging by the way the air shifted around them.

You tightened your grip on the metal, hands trembling.

Price took a careful step forward.

“Easy,” he said, voice low, steady. “You’re safe. We’re not here to hurt you.”

The lie tasted bitter in his mouth.

Because finding you didn’t solve their problem.

It changed everything.