Chapter 1
Episode 01
"My name is Doyoung Depeur."
Bzzt, crackle. The rust-covered antique recorder emitted jarring mechanical static.
It was such an old model - the kind you’d only find in museums now - that getting it to work had been a struggle. But Doyoung didn’t complain. At this point, he was grateful to have even this.
"MCTC TF-Pacific Team 1, rank code OF-0, callsign Eagle Seven. Nationality: French. Current date May 12th, estimated time 1900 hours."
He was recording the same message for the third time, switching languages each round. There was no guarantee this would reach anyone, but he had to try.
"Current location: unknown."
Screeeeeech—
The recorder dragged out a long mechanical whine. A pointless effort, but he squeezed the device tighter, willing the noise to subside.
"I’m still alive."
Darkness enveloped him.
Creeeak.
The sound of a door opening echoed. Light seeped through the crack, framing a shifting black silhouette. The shadow stretched toward Doyoung as if to devour him whole.
He pressed his lips to the recorder and whispered:
"I’ve been captured."
By that beast—
Red eyes locked onto Doyoung. Large and luminous, they glowed like sunlit polished glass even in the rocky dimness.
The woman shoved him harder against the moss-slick stone, her grip tightening on his arm and wrist. The waterfall they’d traversed roared around them, its white spray shattering against rocks like shattered bone.
In that suspended moment of shared gaze, time stretched endlessly. Doyoung couldn’t help retracing how he’d ended up here.
30 hours earlier
"Major."
Doyoung looked up from his book. A sergeant stood at the cabin entrance, nodding.
"We’ll land soon."
The plane jostled in turbulence. Soldiers strapped into wall-mounted seats occupied themselves variously—some reading like Doyoung, others dozing or checking gear. One sipped amber liquid from a hydration pouch.
Noticing this, another sergeant hooked his thumb under his tactical vest’s armpit webbing. "Corporal McCoy, shouldn’t you be full? We’re descending."
"That’s the beauty—it never feels like overeating." McCoy turned, blue eyes still human-bright, too young for the vampiric crimson to fully manifest. "Gives me a boost when needed."
The sergeant shrugged. "Wish we had that."
"There’s steroids," another soldier offered.
"Hard pass," the sergeant grimaced. "My gut’s precious."
The casual banter felt surreal for a spec-ops team pre-mission. Doyoung pocketed his book and approached the cabin window. Beyond the sea, land emerged—their destination.
Humans and vampires now coexisted, thanks to a treaty forged after vampires’ accidental exposure. Their enhanced physicality came with a price: mandatory military service. Thus emerged MCTC (Multilateral Counter-Terror Coalition), where both species operated side-by-side.
Doyoung’s team.
"Let me try," the sergeant said, reaching for McCoy’s pouch. "Always wondered what you Ruaz drink instead of blood."
Boredom bred odd curiosity. Pre-mission limbo left little to do—plans memorized, overthinking counterproductive.
The sergeant took a swig and recoiled. "Tastes like melted mojito ice watered down with saccharin!"
McCoy chuckled. "Harsh! You humans wouldn’t appreciate fresh blood’s richness."
"Says the guy who’s never tasted raw meat?"
"You lack metaphor comprehension!"
As the banter continued, Doyoung secured his helmet. A button-click lowered the NVG lens—motorcycle visor meets night vision.
"Move out. Time to earn our keep."
Green-tinted NVG revealed three camp sentries—two front, one flank. Heavily armed but complacent from uneventful duty.
Doyoung signaled. Shadows flowed soundlessly.
"Wha—?"
Sentries neutralized before their protests formed. The team breached interiors showing hasty evacuation—discarded trash, no evidence. Except...
White powder dusted a desk corner. Doyoung sniffed a gloved finger—crushed crystals resembling methamphetamine.
"Ice?" a sergeant asked, maintaining perimeter watch.
Doyoung brushed off the powder. "No."
The sergeant turned, surprised. "No?"
"We'll need to take this for proper testing, but it's not drugs."
As Doyoung walked past, Sergeant Han dipped his finger into the powder and tasted it.
"You're right. What is this?"
It could've been a new designer drug, but nobody would manufacture something ineffective. For the Luas, human narcotics were useless—their only value lay in selling to humans. What pitiful ambition, for beings reborn in bodies more divine than mortals to stoop to drug dealing. Sure, some thugs still chased quick cash like in their human days, but maintaining this elaborate facility for organized distribution made no economic sense.
When Sergeant McCoy—the team's sole Luas—entered, Han called out:
"Nine, taste this."
McCoy dabbed the powder on his tongue tip. Everyone stared, awaiting his reaction. His face contorted before he spat.
"Weird taste."
Definitely not drugs.
"Let's search deeper," Doyoung gestured, leading the team inward.
Crunch—military walkers crushed debris. Doyoung suddenly stiffened.
"Eight!"
Han remained oblivious. Doyoung instinctively lunged, shoving Han aside just as—BOOM!—the cabinet exploded. The blast hurled Doyoung against the wall, spiderweb cracks spreading from the impact. White-hot pain screamed of shattered bone.
Rat-tat-tat!
Gunfire erupted as enemies materialized.
Ambush.
Through blurred vision, Doyoung saw his team advancing with covering fire. He fought to focus, but debilitating tinnitus made standing impossible—no human could endure such shockwaves. Han yelled indistinctly, dragging Doyoung forward one stumbling step before he collapsed—THUD—into darkness.
The stench hit first—chemical sharpness signaling wrongness. Doyoung blinked at his combat boots splayed against chair legs, hands bound behind him. This wasn't a hospital—his weapons were gone, leaving only a black undershirt beneath his unbuttoned uniform. Someone had stripped him.
Screech—THUD!
The iron door opened. A woman entered the shipping container flanked by black-clad men. Her crimson pantsuit revealed ankles through thigh slits, platinum hair and lipstick mirroring her fiery ensemble—all contrasted by serpent-cold eyes that recognized prey.
"Not a Luas," a man declared after shining light in Doyoung's eyes.
The woman chuckled. "I smelled that. Our males lack this sweetness." She tilted his chin up. "Handsome."
Doyoung smirked. "Thanks."
He knew her—Rachel. High-ranking recruiter for Legion, the most threatening remnant of the shattered SN vampire terrorists. This operation had been their trap. He could only hope his team survived... assuming he did first.
"Bring them."
Her men laid Doyoung's belongings on a table. Rachel inspected them like Tiffany's jewelry, flipping his wristband to reveal dog tags:
"Major Doyoung Dufer... Twenty-seven?"
He shrugged—being mistaken for 27 at 31 wasn't bad for his profession.
"Wait—majors are older," she corrected, resting a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers trailed his nape. "But silence changes nothing."
