Hellsing is owned by others.
The first morning was unexceptional. Her dream conjured up, and gently released. There was someone familiar in reality; a man who did not survive. A figurehead, tumors cutting down his time and purpose, stealing his daughter's innocence. Dragging fingertips across her chest, Integra couldn't help but wonder about her own path.
The second morning her knuckles were bruised. She had been breaking glass, shattering it with her fists. Small pieces burst from miniature square planes, tinkling as they hit the floor. All around her pieces shone with a bright intensity that even the thin-fingered dark retreated.
She awoke panicky, heart beating, brow sweating, on the third morning. Circumstances forced impossible, asinine miscalculations on the job, and her family's organization was leveled. Exiting the church of her youth, two middle-aged men slid from the shadows. She found herself dragged toward an unmarked sedan. Unarmed, in the dark, she fumbled for keys in her coat pocket, her stoic voice rang out, "you wouldn't dare." She maneuvered keys between fingers, crouching her body in a fighting stance. The man closest backed away, palms open waving no. She stepped past the trunk of his vehicle. He shrugged, giving up as she continued to step back. She missed his signal to the one with graying hair to come around the car. Delayed reaction, time slowed down , the sound of a match lit like thunder. It flew into the open collar of her coat. His smirk touched her eyes, as she realized too late she was alight. The smell of open flame burning blonde locks.
Months passed. Days phased in and out of each other, like plumes from her father's cigars. She was vaguely aware of the gothic hospital where she stayed, her dreaming mind fusing a care center with the towered church. If she looked outside, the window was black. Her skin surprised her; right side, neck and shoulders marred by scars from grafts, where flames licked red. A knock from the black window. A smile. A wave. He is genuinely happy to see her. Pursuing her still, biding time until her release. She bolts awake, clutching her throat.
Three days, nights, dreams.