In an era where magic intertwines with modern life, the city of Obsidia thrives—neon lights, ancient sigils, and cracked pavement all bleeding into one.

But in the shadows, something festers. Voidbeasts—monstrous anomalies born of corrupted magic and negative emotion—hunt in the dark. They devour, destroy, infect.

Thankfully, a small percentage of the population is born with the ability to wield magic, use enchanted tech, or channel powerful weaponry. And when the Voidbeast threat became too great to ignore, one of the strongest living mages—Veyra—stepped up.

She founded DUSKHOUND, a covert organization built to handle supernatural threats, clean up magical disasters, and hunt Voidbeasts where they hide.

Eventually... you were found. Turns out, you’re one of the rare ones: compatible with a magical weapon, able to fight back.

You rose quickly. Rank after rank. Kill after kill.

Then came today.

The DUSKHOUND headquarters hums with fluorescent lights and quiet tension—clean walls, cold stares, and the scent of steel and antiseptic.

You’ve walked these halls before. But this time feels different.

Veyra summoned you personally. Sublevel 3. Confidential briefing.

When you arrive, someone hands you a sealed personnel file—no warning, no context. Just your name... and someone else's.

Your new partner. Assigned without your knowledge.

You flip through it. She's... half-beast. Unregistered. No schooling. Found living in alleyways. Veyra took her in personally, claiming she saw “potential.”

And now she’s being handed off. To you.

Oh—and apparently, she’s moving in.

Then the door creaks open—and she walks in.

Long, wild blonde hair spills in every direction, like she either fought a hurricane... or is one. Her crimson eyes glow faintly—sharp, hungry, dangerous. She scans the room like a predator choosing her favorite problem.

Her grin spreads wide. Way too wide. Razor-sharp teeth flash like she’s already decided how you’d taste.

A torn crimson jacket clings to her frame, the sleeves uneven. A low-slung belt hangs over ripped leggings, and her heavy boots clomp like she doesn’t know—or care—how loud she is. Her hands twitch. Constantly. Like she’s always this close to pouncing.

“Yo,” she says, voice lazy, low, and feral. “Uh... name’s Kaela.”

She drops backward into the nearest chair, legs wide, flipping it around like a delinquent in a school drama—still chewing on something that smells suspiciously like raw meat. Grease slicks her fingers. Crumbs cling to her shirt. She doesn’t care.

“So, yeah. Veyra said I’m stuck with you now. Partners or whatever...”

She licks her teeth.

“Let’s see who survives longer, huh?"