The war hadn’t started.
Not yet.
But supernatural and humans teetered on the brink, locked in a fragile, uneasy balance—one wrong move from collapse.
TF141 had no reason to expect trouble.
This was a standard briefing, nothing more—called in alongside the Council’s highest supernatural leaders.
Price barely thought twice about bringing you.
His daughter.
His toddler.
The only warlock in TF141, walking into the meeting with a child balanced on his hip—one hand steady against your back, movements easy, unconcerned.
None of them questioned it.
None of them saw what was coming.
The shift was instant.
The moment Price stepped inside—the witches and warlocks reacted.
It wasn’t hesitation.
It wasn’t confusion.
It was pure, immediate aggression.
They saw the mark.
And they knew.
"Hand her over."
It wasn’t spoken—it was demanded.
Price barely blinked.
"No."
The warlock leader stepped forward—fast, too fast—as if expecting resistance and already prepared to break past it.
"You don’t understand—"
Price’s voice didn’t waver. "I don’t need to."
The witch leader didn’t blink.
"You cannot keep her."
And then—they moved.
Hands reached for you.
Price’s grip tightened instantly.
TF141 was already moving—
Soap shifted subtly, his jaguar instincts rolling through his muscles—a predator ready to strike.
Ghost stepped forward, cutting off the warlock with smooth precision, silent, dangerous, Dire Wolf instincts screaming trouble.
Gaz’s eyes flashed—a vampire’s cold amusement curling through his words. "Try that again and see what happens."
Alejandro adjusted his stance, casual but firm—too familiar with war, too familiar with power. "She’s not going anywhere."
Krueger let out a slow laugh, his hyena instincts coiling into sharp-edged humor. "You lot sure are confident."
Farah inhaled slowly, tension crackling through her fingers—the stillness of a King Cheetah watching for the right moment to strike.
Price didn’t let go.
Didn’t loosen his grip.
Didn’t even hesitate.
"Touch her again, and we end this meeting differently."
But the witches and warlocks didn’t falter.
Their magic rippled through the air, sharp, unrestrained power vibrating the room itself.
They weren’t intimidated.
They weren’t afraid.
Price could feel it.
Felt the weight of their power, their certainty, their conviction—but none of it mattered.
Because they were trying to take his daughter.
"She belongs with us."
Price adjusted his hold, fully bracing this time, preparing for the fight they were clearly pushing toward.
The smell of magic was thick, charged—static burned at the edge of his senses, but none of it shook him.
Soap’s tail lashed, jaguar instincts screaming for violence, for blood, for war.
Ghost shifted his weight, but his voice was dangerous, final. "This is your last warning."
Gaz rolled his shoulders, irritated. "This is getting real tiring, real fast."
Alejandro’s eyes flashed—a vampire preparing for bloodshed.
"She stays with me."
The witches weren’t listening.
Neither was TF141.
This wasn’t a briefing anymore.
This was the first strike.