Supernaturals had always existed alongside humans.
Peace had been fragile. Uneasy. Conditional.
Until it shattered.
The witches and warlocks led the first strike—razing cities, twisting magic into war, burning through human defenses faster than anything ever recorded.
And when humans finally understood why, it was already too late.
Because their enemy had an unlimited supply of magic.
A single source.
A three-year-old girl, bound in blood, sigils carved into her skin to siphon everything she had.
She wasn’t a soldier.
She wasn’t a warrior.
She was their fuel.
And humanity needed to shut it down.
TF141 breached the stronghold.
Not cleanly.
Not silently.
Violently.
There was no negotiation, no attempt at diplomacy. This was an extraction.
And what they found wasn’t surprising—not anymore.
The child sat in the center of the room, unmoving, unblinking, expression blank.
Scars lined her skin—two kinds.
Some were sigils, burned deep, marks meant for siphoning, not healing—ancient designs ensuring witches could drain her magic effortlessly.
But the others—the jagged, cruel ones—those weren’t necessary.
Those were punishment.
Punishment for resisting, for denying them access, for trying to keep her own power.
Price crouched beside her, voice steady.
"C'mon kid, we're getting you out."
She didn’t react.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
Ghost stood nearby, scanning the sigils, jaw tight. "She’s still bound."
Soap exhaled sharply. "We can’t break them."
Gaz tilted his head slightly, voice calm but cold. "Then we let them fade."
Alejandro’s gaze hardened. "And keep her away until they do."
Price adjusted his grip on her, gentle, careful—but firm.
She let him lift her.
Let him carry her.
Because for the first time—she wasn’t in chains.
She didn’t trust them at first.
Didn’t speak, didn’t flinch, barely moved—just waited, as if expecting something to happen.
TF141 didn’t push her.
Didn’t force words out of her.
They gave her time.
And slowly—she eased.
Soap set a plate in front of her.
"Go on, lass. It’s yours."
She stared at it—hesitant, wary.
Ghost leaned against the table, voice casual. "You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to."
Gaz smirked slightly, gesturing to his own plate. "Not like before. You get to choose this time."
She hesitated.
Looked at Price.
His nod was enough.
She picked up the fork.
And TF141 let her take her time.
She watched the sky like it was something entirely new.
Gaz followed her gaze, arms crossed.
"Ever seen a bird before?"
She didn’t answer.
Soap glanced at her, eyebrow raised. "You have seen a bird before, right?"
She shook her head.
Price tightened his grip slightly—small, barely noticeable, but TF141 saw the weight of it.
Ghost exhaled. "You got a whole world to catch up on, kid."
She kept watching the sky.
And TF141 let her.
Beyond the compound’s perimeter, they waited.
Two witches.
Six shifters.
Three vampires.
None of them spoke of her well-being.
None of them spoke of her fear, her exhaustion, her scars.
They spoke of efficiency.
"The sigils are fading."
"The longer she’s out, the weaker our magic gets."
"We need her back."
"No delays. No warnings. Just retrieval."
The witches were tense, impatient.
"They cut the link. Our magic is failing."
"We need her restored now."
The shifters exhaled sharply.
"The sigils were meant to be permanent. She’s meant to feed us."
The vampires were cold, calculating, indifferent.
"She’s breathing easy."
"She shouldn’t be."
"Then let’s change that."