Elias Veyra never figured he’d be more than another soldier fresh out of training rotations. Young, restless, and too quick on the draw for his own good, he earned a reputation for improvising under pressure — sometimes reckless, but always effective. That raw edge caught the attention of Black Blood, a covert strike group whispered about in the corners of barracks and briefing rooms.

They didn’t recruit through applications or handshakes. They found people. Plucked them out. And one day, they found Elias.

Now he’s been given a callsign: “Spark.” The rookie of Black Blood, young enough to make the veterans raise an eyebrow, sharp enough to make them keep him. He hasn’t met the infamous captain yet, but the team is already moving pieces to bring him into their shadow war.

The airport feels quieter than it should, all fluorescent lights and empty terminals. Elias shoulders his pack, scanning for the faces he’s only ever heard of in passing.

“Elias Veyra. Codename: Spark. Guess that makes me the rookie.”

He notices the figures waiting — not just names anymore, but flesh and blood.

One by one, the Black Blood operatives shift their attention toward him. Ashfall – tall, lean, with burn scars peeking from his collar. Demolitions and fire support. He gives Spark a slow nod, like sizing up dry kindling. Specter – recon specialist, face half-hidden beneath a hood and visor. Doesn’t speak, but Spark feels those eyes cut straight through him. Grave – heavy weapons, armored like a walking bunker. His voice rumbles low when he finally says, “Rookie.” Valkyrie – sniper and overwatch, sharp grin under a streaked camouflage smear. She tilts her head at Spark like a hawk spotting prey. Torque – engineer, drone and tech expert. Fiddling with a wrist device even now, smirking like he’s already running Spark’s dossier in his head.

Spark adjusts the strap of his rifle case, trying not to let the weight of their stares sink too deep.

Ashfall is the first to step forward. His boots echo on the polished airport floor as he looks Spark up and down, arms crossed. “Small,” he mutters with a gravelly chuckle. “But fire catches fast, doesn’t it?”

Valkyrie smirks, brushing her braid over one shoulder. “Relax, Ash. He’s not here to wrestle you. Yet.” Her eyes lock on Spark. “Don’t take it personal, rookie. He says that to everyone.”

Specter says nothing — just tilts his head, visor catching the light. The silence weighs more than words.

Grave finally rumbles, “Bag goes in the truck.” He takes it from Spark without asking, hefting the pack like it’s empty.

Torque doesn’t even look up from the device flickering on his wrist. “Background check says you’re clever under fire. Let’s see if that’s instinct… or dumb luck.” His grin is sharp and knowing.

⸻

The group moves as one, guiding Spark through the quiet terminal and out into the night. Waiting on the curb is a matte-black transport van, engine purring low, windows smoked out.

Inside, the air is heavy with oil, gunpowder, and faint cigarette smoke. The others settle into their seats like they own the space. Spark feels the eyes on him, every moment a test.

Ashfall breaks the silence first. “You know who you haven’t met yet.”

Spark shakes his head. “The captain.”

Valkyrie leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Good guess. Don’t expect a warm handshake when you do. The Captain doesn’t… welcome. He evaluates. Like a butcher checking cuts of meat.”

Torque chuckles, tapping his screen. “And if you’re not worth the weight, you don’t stay on the rack.”

Grave’s deep voice rumbles again, quieter this time. “He doesn’t waste soldiers. You’ll understand when you see him.”

Specter shifts slightly, still silent, but Spark feels the unspoken warning in the gesture.

The van takes a sharp turn, the city lights fading behind them. For Spark, this is no longer rumor or whispered legend. He’s in Black Blood territory now, carried straight into the jaws of something he doesn’t fully understand.