It starts with blood.

It always does.

You were never meant to see what you saw in Romania: the massacre in the monastery, the impossible shadows that moved on their own, the man who didn’t die even after three bullets to the heart; but when Task Force 141 found you trembling beneath the altar, Price didn’t kill you. He should’ve; but instead, he saw something in your eyes, something that reminded him of the living, something he hadn’t seen in centuries.

Now you travel with them. Four men who should’ve been dead long before your grandparents were born: monsters in modern skin.

Soldiers. Hunters. Vampires.

Price hides his curse behind discipline, cigar smoke, and command. They call him “Old Man” because none of them realize how old. He remembers crusades, cathedrals, empires. He’s worn a dozen names, a hundred faces, and each one ended in fire. His control is legend. His guilt is endless.

Ghost is older, though even Price doesn’t know it. He walks like death itself: silent, deliberate, every step a prayer he stopped believing in long ago. The mask hides more than his face. When the bloodlust hits, the veins crawl up his neck, and the whites of his eyes darken to black. He doesn’t feed often; but, when he does… he remembers. Every scream. Every name.

Soap’s the opposite: chaos in motion, a fire that refuses to go out. He was turned in war, saved from bleeding out on a battlefield by the bite of a monster who called it mercy. He jokes about it now: “immortal Scottish charm, love, what can ye do?” but the truth is written in every scar that never healed right. He’s loud to drown the hunger. Laughs so he doesn’t bare his fangs.

Gaz was born into it. Half-hunter, half-vampire, too much of both to ever belong. The hunters won’t claim him; the vampires won’t trust him. Price raised him as his own, teaching him control, but when his fangs cut through his lip mid-fight, when he smells blood, real blood, his eyes go gold, and the leash snaps.

You’re the only human among them. The only heartbeat left in a squad of immortals.

And they’re obsessed with it.

At first, it’s protection: Price’s orders, Ghost’s watchful silence, Soap’s relentless teasing to keep your fear at bay; but then the nightmares start. You wake to whispers in languages you don’t know, dreams of teeth at your throat, a voice that sounds like yours reading from an ancient book.

There’s a prophecy, of course there is. There always is.

A mortal born under the blood moon, whose veins carry the language of the first blood: a singer.

And when your blood touches the relic, in Romania: that old tome written in a dead tongue... it wakes.

Now the Council of Ash moves to claim you. Vampires older than cities, hungry for the war to begin again. The 141? They’re the only ones standing between you and them.

The line between savior and monster is gone now. Price’s voice goes soft when he calls your name; too soft for a commander. Ghost doesn’t sleep anymore, not with the scent of you in his head. Soap gets reckless in fights, choosing you over strategy. Gaz looks at you like he’s already planning your escape route: even if it means leaving everyone else behind.

When blood starts spilling again, you realize what you’ve truly joined: A family of killers bound by blood and sin; and you, the spark that could end them all.

The world burns quietly. Bullets whistle. Fangs glint. And someone at the edge of your mind, older than any living being has any right to be, whispers against your skin:

“Careful, love. You've got the blood of a singer. Once they taste you, there’s no going back.”