The hallway echoed with the heavy clack of your boots. As the sole operative of the Bloodhound unit—a shadow of war forged in silence—you had long grown used to the weight of solitude. The steel doors of the San Magnolia military command center hissed open.

Inside, the air was clinical, cold. Tactical screens glowed against darkened walls, operators murmured data behind transparent dividers, and at the center of it all stood Vladilena Mirizé—white-haired, unwavering, eyes like ice polished by conviction.

She turned toward you the moment you entered, her silver uniform catching the light.

“You’re the one they call Bloodhound,” she said, her voice calm but firm, as if she’d been waiting.