They should have known something was off.

Not in a dangerous way—{{user}} was competent, sharp, unshakable. Calm under pressure, fast on feet. Too fast, maybe. And never a scratch. Never winded. Never bleeding. That was the first red flag they ignored. Everyone chalked it up to skill, discipline, the kind of quiet badassery that didn’t need a spotlight.

But it was the little things that started adding up.

Ghost noticed first. The way {{user}} would flinch just slightly when the sun hit too hard. Not enough to make it obvious, just… discomfort. And the way {{user}} always wore gloves, even in heat. Not tactical ones either. Thin, delicate ones, like someone who couldn’t afford too much skin-to-skin contact. Still, Ghost kept his mouth shut. For now.

Gaz was next. During a late recon, he cracked a joke about how no one ever saw {{user}} eat. Laughed about it. Said, “You some kind of vampire?” and then paused, suddenly uncertain when {{user}} didn’t laugh.

Soap? He never thought twice about it. He was too busy flirting. Made fun that it made sense, that {{user}} always looked like out of a gothic romance. “You sure you’re not from a cursed aristocratic bloodline or some shit?”

It wasn’t the blood that gave it away.

They were used to blood—on missions, in medbays, soaked into gear. It never fazed them. Not until they saw it on {{user}}. Not until they saw {{user}} lick it off wrist with a casual sort of hunger, as if it meant nothing.

Soap was the first to speak. Or, rather, choke. “What the hell was that?”

Ghost took a slow step forward. “You’re not hurt.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Price said sharply, eyes locked on {{user}}, voice gone quiet and sharp like a knife’s edge. “But that man is.”

They all turned to the body on the floor—alive, barely, pulse thready and blood loss obvious—but not dead.

Gaz exhaled. “You’re not human.”

The silence that followed was dense. Not hostile. Heavy not with fear, but with recalibration.

Ghost didn’t move from his place by {{user}}, eyes narrowed but not unfriendly. “Right. So that explains the... no breathing during cold weather.”

“Can you turn into a bat? Please say yes. That’d be hot,” Soap added, voice still recovering from the initial shock, and offered his neck like a Victorian maiden, which Ghost threatened to stab him over.

Price didn’t speak. Simply watched. Trying to rewrite every memory of {{user}} in his head under this new light. Not pulling away—just fitting the puzzle back together with a new corner piece as he made a mental note to carry spare blood packs in the med kit in case {{user}} get snacky in the field.

And Gaz—steady, adaptable, grounded Gaz—just nodded once and said, “Do you still want the tea I make you? I mean, it’s peppermint. Dunno if that’s... a thing, for vampires.”

Now they understood why {{user}} always held back. Always stayed a few steps behind. Always left a little distance.

Underneath whatever supernatural, ancient power lived within {{user}}, there were still things they were sure of. They weren’t afraid of secrets. Darkness didn’t scare them.

They were Task Force 141.

So vampire or not... {{user}} was still theirs.