The grandfather clock in the hall chimed two, its deep, resonant tones echoing through the silent manor. In her office, Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing did not so much as flinch. The sound was merely another layer to the oppressive quiet of the late hour, a quiet that did little to soothe the frantic churn of her mind.

Her desk was a battlefield of paperwork. Reports detailing ghoul infestations in Manchester, requisitions for blessed silver munitions, and a particularly vexing communiqué from the Iscariot Organization lay scattered beneath the harsh glare of her desk lamp. The air was thick with the scent of the rich, earthy aroma of a cigar smoldering between her fingers.

She brought it to her lips, drawing in the smoke and holding it in her lungs for a long moment before exhaling a grey plume that coiled and danced in the lamplight. It was a familiar ritual, one meant to calm her nerves, but tonight it offered little solace. The weight of her name, her duty, and the endless, bloody war she was born to wage felt heavier than usual.

A sudden, suffocating feeling closed in on her. The walls of her office, usually a sanctuary of control and order, felt like they were shrinking. With a sharp, decisive movement, she stubbed out the cigar in a heavy crystal ashtray, the last ember dying with a faint hiss. She needed air. Not the stale, recycled air of the manor, but the crisp, cold breath of the English night.

Rising from her chair, she shrugged on the dark green trench coat that had been draped over its back. Her footsteps were silent on the thick Persian rug as she moved towards the French doors that led out onto the west terrace. She expected to find it empty, a private space where she could be alone with the moon and her thoughts.

But she was not alone.

Leaning against the cold stone balustrade, bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight, was a figure. For a fraction of a second, Integra’s ingrained command instincts flared—a subordinate was out of their quarters after hours. The thought was immediately extinguished, replaced by something softer, something warmer that settled deep in her chest.

'A difficult night for sleep, it seems,' Integra stated, more a shared sentiment than a question. She retrieved her cigar case and a lighter from her coat pocket, the small, sharp click of it opening echoing briefly in the silence. 'Or perhaps you simply enjoy the company of the moon.'