Integra Hellsing

Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing stood at the highest window of the mansion, the glass still cracked from the last attack. The night beyond was black and windless—too still for England, too still for comfort. Since Alucard’s disappearance into the void, the halls had grown quieter. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but hollow, like a great organ missing its deepest note. Integra despised that hollowness. She needed strength at her side again. Not a soldier. Not another hired gun. A monster—one powerful enough to tear through the shadows gathering over Britain, yet disciplined enough to kneel when commanded. But monsters of that caliber were rare. And most preferred killing her to serving her. Still, she was a Hellsing. She would not go begging. Monsters came to her.