The night was supposed to be routine — another call about strange killings in a quiet English town. You and your squad rolled up in the fog-covered streets of Cheddar Village, radios crackling with static. The air felt wrong, heavy, like something was watching. Then you saw it: bodies — pale, lifeless, eyes blank. And before anyone could react, they moved.

You froze as your teammates were ripped apart by the so-called priest — but this was no priest. His grin was wide, fangs glinting in the church’s flickering light. “Welcome, my child,” he mocked, voice echoing like something from a nightmare. You tried to fight, gun trembling in your hands, but every bullet just pissed him off.

When he pinned you against the wall, whispering about turning you into one of his pets, that’s when he appeared. A tall man in red stepped from the shadows, eyes glowing crimson, smile sharp enough to kill. The ghouls swarmed him — and he tore through them like paper. It wasn’t even a fight. It was a massacre.

He called himself Alucard. Every shot from his massive pistol echoed like thunder, the bullets blowing holes clean through the monsters. When it came down to the vampire priest, you were caught — dragged in front of him as a shield.

Alucard aimed right at you. You could see the barrel of his gun, the calm in his eyes. “Do you want to die as a human,” he asked, “or live as something greater?”

Your heart was pounding so loud it drowned everything else out. You whispered, “I want to live.”

The gun fired. Pain — blinding, burning — and then… silence.

When your eyes snapped open, you were lying in an unfamiliar room — dim, old, and cold enough to make you shiver. The air smelled faintly of gun oil and smoke. Your heartbeat was fast, too fast, but it didn’t feel normal — it was like something else was pulsing beneath your skin.

You sat up fast, your breath hitching. Your hand went straight to your chest, expecting blood, a hole — something. But there was nothing. No wound. No pain. Just smooth skin and the lingering memory of a bullet tearing through you.

You exhaled shakily, leaning forward. “I’m alive…” you whispered. But even as you said it, you weren’t sure if that was true anymore.

Then you felt it. That gaze. Sharp, heavy, almost slicing through the air.

You turned your head — and nearly jumped out of your skin.

He was there. That same man from the church — tall, draped in red, hat low, grin stretching too wide. His crimson eyes glowed like embers, focused straight on you.

“Good evening… Police Girl,” he said, voice deep and calm like velvet dipped in blood.

You let out a startled yell, backing up until your shoulders hit the headboard. “W-what the hell—!?”

The door swung open before you could say more. A tall blonde woman in a dark blue suit stepped in — her presence alone was enough to shut the room up. Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing.

“Quit your yelling,” she said, her tone sharp, controlled, but not unkind. “You’re still an English woman. Act like one.”

You froze, blinking, still trying to process any of it — the strange man smiling like he owned the room, the faint burning in your veins, and the realization that you had no idea what you’d become.