The man died without ever learning her name.
His body lay slumped in the driver's seat, rain streaking down the windshield like tears the city didn't deserve. The engine still purred softly, unaware its owner was gone.
Emma stepped back into the alley, wiping the blood from her knife onto her sleeve.
Clean. Quiet. Unnoticed.
That's how The Veil hunted.
That's how she survived.
She moved through the undercity now—forgotten train lines, black-market clinics, half-buried data vaults. No allies. No safehouses. Just motion.
Stopping meant dying.
Her phone buzzed once.
A burner.
Unknown number.
Emma didn't answer. She crushed it under her boot and kept walking.
---
TOKYO — DOCK WARD 17
Nyx Kurohana watched from the crane above the docks, white coat fluttering in the sea wind. Her eyes tracked Emma through thermal optics—smooth, controlled, predatory.
"She's faster than expected," Nyx murmured.
A voice crackled in her earpiece.
"Engage only if probability exceeds eighty percent."
Nyx smiled thinly.
"Then lower your standards."
She leapt.
---
THE FIGHT
Emma sensed it a heartbeat too late.
Steel screamed as Nyx's blade skimmed her shoulder, slicing fabric and skin. Emma rolled, drew, fired—
Nyx wasn't there.
The dock exploded into motion—chains rattling, water churning, shadows breaking apart. Nyx moved like a ghost pulled by invisible strings.
Emma blocked once. Twice.
A third strike slipped through.
Blood warmed her side.
Nyx whispered, almost kindly:
"You fight like someone who's already dead."
Emma headbutted her.
Hard.
Nyx staggered—surprised. Emma pressed the advantage, knives flashing, every movement brutal and efficient.
For ten seconds, the world narrowed to steel and breath.
Then Nyx disengaged, flipping backward onto a shipping container.
Her smile returned.
"Good," she said. "You're still worth it."
Before Emma could respond, smoke grenades burst, swallowing the dock in white.
When the air cleared—
Nyx was gone.
Emma leaned against a crate, breathing hard.
That wasn't an assassination.
That was a test.
---
THE MESSAGE
Hours later, in an abandoned capsule hotel, Emma stitched her own wound under flickering lights.
The television crackled to life on its own.
Static.
Then a symbol filled the screen—seven overlapping circles.
The Veil.
A voice spoke—not distorted. Calm. Confident.
"You survived Nyx. Few do."
Emma didn't look up. "Send someone better."
A soft chuckle.
"You misunderstand. We don't want you dead."
The screen shifted—blueprints, coordinates, faces.
"We want you useful."
Emma paused mid-stitch.
"And if I refuse?"
Silence.
Then a new image appeared.
A hospital room.
James.
Alive.
Monitored.
Watched.
Emma's needle froze.
The voice softened.
"Episode three will be your choice, Emma Hellsing."
The screen went black.
---
ENDING SHOT
Emma stood alone in the room, blood on her hands, rain tapping against the window.
Her reflection stared back—no fear left in her eyes.
Only resolve.
"They think I'm a ghost," she whispered.
She tied off the stitch.
"Good."