Drogo had just risen from where he knelt, brushing loose soil from his gloved hands as he reached for another seedling — the stillness of the forest shifted.
The dry shuffle of leaves disturbed was not by wind but by weight. The kind of careless intrusion that did not belong in a place so secluded.
Drogo’s movements slowed.
The watering can remained suspended in his grip for a second longer before he lowered it quietly to the ground and turned his head toward the sound.
Branches parted.
A man stumbled out from between the bushes, catching himself against the trunk of a tree as though the earth beneath him could not quite be trusted. His steps were uneven, with slacked shoulders, his breathing shallow and erratic.
Drogo stood at once, pulling off his gloves as his posture straightened instinctively into alertness.
“Stop right there,” he said, not loudly, but with enough authority to cut through the space between them. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
The man lifted his head slowly, as if the effort required calculation.
“I wasn’t… wasn’t looking for trouble,” he muttered, the words thick and poorly assembled.
Now that he stood in clearer light, Drogo’s eyes took in the details. Pale skin etched with abstract tattoo work that crawled from his neck down both arms and across his knuckles. Silver piercings glinted faintly in the dimming sun, one chain linking an earring to a ring at his lip. His long red strands dangled over his face.
Recognition settled quietly. He had seen this man before.
“You were with Ms. Benjamin,” Drogo said sternly. “At church.”
The man let out a weak exhale that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Samson.”
The stranger coughed. “I’m her boyfriend.”
Drogo’s gaze hardened slightly. “What exactly are you doing this far outside town, Mr. Samson?”
Samson tilted his head lazily, his eyes lined with dark circles. “Could ask you the same thing,” he replied, gesturing vaguely toward the garden. “Gardening in the middle of nowhere? Bit… dramatic, isn’t it?”
Drogo ignored the attempt at humor. “You are intoxicated.”
“I’m not—”
“The smell of alcohol is pronounced,” Drogo continued calmly, stepping a little closer, assessing him with clinical detachment. “Your pupils are dilated. Your coordination is impaired.”
Samson looked away, jaw tightening as he shook his head.
Drogo’s eyes dropped briefly to his forearms, where faint red puncture marks interrupted the inked patterns of his skin.
“And you’ve injected yourself as well. Might I guess… heroin?”
This time Samson did not answer immediately. His shoulders sagged, as though the accusation had removed the last fragment of energy holding him upright.
“Then enlighten me,” Drogo replied, his tone sharpening just enough to signal skepticism. “Because from where I stand, that is precisely what this resembles. Except your best defense is to insult my intelligence.”
Something in Samson’s miserable expression shifted.
The defensive smirk faltered, and in its place came a tiredness that looked too heavy to watch.
“I jus- Just needed quiet,” he said, voice unsteady now for a different reason. “Just needed to get away for a bit. Everything’s loud lately.”
Drogo watched him without interruption.
Samson swallowed hard. “Karen… she’s—” He stopped himself, ran a hand down his face. “She’s not easy. You won’t understand… I love her, but it’s like she’s always at war with something. With me. With herself… Us. I don’t even know anymore.”
His breathing began to fracture.
“I try to keep up. I try to be solid for her. But I’m tired, man. I’m so tired. I wake up and it’s like there’s this weight on my chest and I don’t even know why. Some days I can’t tell if I’m angry or just… empty.”
Drogo’s brows quirked. Well, talk about unprovoked confession.
Samson’s voice wavered, losing its earlier arrogance entirely. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. She doesn’t see me as a man anymore.”
The words came out smaller than the rest.
Drogo had not expected that.
For a moment, the irritation he felt dissolved into something more complicated. He removed his remaining glove and stepped closer, cautious but no longer confrontational.
“Have you sought medical help?” he asked quietly. “Counseling? Therapy?”
Samson laughed weakly through his nose. “You think I can afford therapy?” His expression twisted. “I barely understand myself. How am I supposed to explain this to someone else?”
His breathing hitched again, and this time the tears came without restraint. His shoulders shook as he pressed a hand to his face, trying to contain it, trying to steady himself. He broke into tears.
Drogo hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden emotional collapse, yet unwilling to ignore it.
He stepped forward carefully, placing a hand on his shoulder. “If you are experiencing depressive symptoms combined with substance use, that combination can escalate quickly. You cannot self-medicate your way through instability.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Samson whimpered into his palm, weeping. “I just… needed it to stop for a few hours.”
He gagged suddenly.
Too late.
Samson lurched forward, and before Drogo could fully retreat, the contents of his stomach spilled onto the front of Drogo’s shirt.
The shock was immediate.
Drogo recoiled sharply, disgust flashing across his features as he looked down at himself, the smell hitting a second later.
Samson dropped to his knees, retching again into the soil, his body convulsing weakly.
Drogo exhaled slowly through his nose, his composure thinning. “This,” he muttered under his breath, “is precisely how my evening was not meant to unfold.”
He pulled the ruined shirt over his head without hesitation and tossed it aside, revealing the intricate tattoo work that coiled around his neck and extended across his shoulders and back in detailed patterns.
He turned toward his car, clearly intending to retrieve water or a spare garment.
Behind him, Samson’s retching slowed and then the trembling ceased.
The man on his knees lifted his head slowly.
His breathing steadied.
Mathieu.
The expression on his face shifted from the vulnerable mess of a man he was cosplaying earlier.
He pushed long strands aside, revealing eyes that were no longer hazy but sharp and keen.
His gaze locked onto Drogo’s exposed back.
The tattoo did not appear as decorative chaos but instead a symbolic design. A dark marking wrapped around Drogo’s neck like an ornate collar before branching outward over his shoulders, spiraling down his back in symmetrical formations that resembled ancient sigils rather than modern ink.
The lines intertwined with unsettling precision, as if each symbol served a purpose beyond aesthetics.
Mathieu’s lips curved faintly.
So it’s true, he thought.
Taking in every detail, memorizing placement, spacing, structure, Mathieu then slowly dropped his head to continue forcing a vomit.
Then, just as Drogo turned back toward him from the direction of the car, Mathieu’s body folded inward again, forcing another weak gag as though the sickness had resumed.
When Drogo approached once more, irritation returning to his expression, Mathieu — framing as Samson — appeared exactly as before.
Vulnerable, broken, and too miserable not to be harmless.
Remember in chapter 2, Mathieu’s new identity is Samson while Karen maintained her real first name.