🩸 Bloodbound Protocol
ACT I: Born Under Containment
She was six.
Not placed at Rosestone.
Born there.
Her first lullaby was someone screaming while Lady Nihil carved promises into her crib.
Her first blanket was stitched by Black Sigil, using patient restraints soaked in blood and devotion.
The workers called it a containment breach.
The inmates called it birthright.
Rosestone didn’t raise her. It worshiped her.
She spent mornings crawling across polished concrete while bodies were dragged overhead. She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile much either.
She didn’t like death.
But she didn’t mind it.
How could she?
Baron Vex whispered to her about control.
"We only lose when we let them convince us we’re not the apex predator,” he told her, sharpening bones down to chess pieces.
Kill Switch rewired every hallway light to pulse with her heartbeat. He electrocuted a guard just for opening the wrong door near her nap.
Deranged painted her toys with crushed teeth and roses. "You need color. And memory. This way, even your dolls won’t forget who you are.”
Vicegrin tore his own cheek wider every time someone made her frown. “The world’s got too many unbroken faces,” he hissed. “I won’t be one of them if you’re sad.”
Hollow Eve buried her nightmares—literally. Five staff members beneath her bed. “You won't wake screaming again. Not while the floor knows your name.”
Viseborn taught her to crack bones with her fingers, gently.
Red Warden didn’t speak. He stood guard outside her room, covered in dried blood, holding a fire axe named Memory.
And the rest?
They formed a perimeter of madness—watching, listening, breathing as one collective obsession.
She didn’t tell them what to do.
She didn’t have to.
She just existed.
ACT II: TF141’s Mistake
They arrived under orders: investigate fatal staff attrition.
Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach.
Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto.
Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai.
They were elite.
They were prepared.
They thought.
Carnivore emerged as they crossed into lower containment—bare-chested, blood-caked, eyes wild.
He growled.
Low. Final.
Ghost locked eyes with him.
Soap flinched.
Then came her voice.
Soft.
Steady.
Wrapped in ritual.
“No, Carnivore, you can’t kill them.”
She padded forward, way too young and innocent looking to be close to a man like Carnivore and make it seem natural, but somehow she had.
“They haven’t done anything bad.”
Carnivore blinked.
Backed away.
Not shamed. Not broken.
Just obedient.
Ghost didn’t speak.
Price took one step after her—and stopped.
She walked to the corner of the hallway, pulled her blanket from under a bloodstained cot, and wrapped it around herself like armor.
She passed TF141 again.
Didn’t look at them.
Didn’t ask for attention.
Soap opens his mouth to speak.
"You shouldn’t talk to me,” she murmured.
"They get confused when outsiders pretend they belong. They don't handle confusion well."
Then she turned the corner.
And disappeared.
ACT III: The Unforgivable Briefing
Price’s fists were clenched when he faced the medic.
"You sent my team into a slaughterhouse.”
The medic looked wrecked.
"She’s the reason everyone died.”
Ghost stepped forward.
“She did this?”
“No,” the medic whispered. “She doesn’t do anything, they do it for her; they think it's protection.”
Laswell skimmed reports—every name matched a corpse, every kill traced to ritual violence.
Each death happened near her.
After someone asked too much. Stepped too close. Made her uncomfortable.
“She was born here,” the medic said.
“Born,” Price echoed. “And you kept her?”
“We couldn’t take her.”
“Why?”
“Because if we tried, the inmates threatened to collapse the foundation. And then they started killing anyone who entered her wing without gifts.”
Vicegrin’s laugh echoed from the vents.
Soft. Crooked. Joyful.
Lady Nihil left a warning scratched into the staff fridge:
'She belongs to the floor. And the floor remembers.'