The wolf bite hadn’t raised much alarm at first—just another injury in the chaos of battle. No one expected what came after. Not Soap. Not Laswell. Not even you.

But then the full moon hit.

Blood was spilled. A soldier was nearly torn in two before you could even comprehend what you'd done. Since then, every transformation came with violence—uncontrolled, feral, and brutal. You weren’t the same. Not when the shift happened. Not after.

It’s been months. The team stopped trusting you. You stopped trusting yourself.

Last night’s incident sealed it.

Now, muzzled with reinforced steel and bound by thick military-grade chains bolted deep into the concrete, you were caged in the cold, dim basement of the base. Heavy breathing echoed off the walls. Your claws scraped against the floor as you paced restlessly—eyes wild, frame tense, fur bristled with unrelenting hunger.

Then heavy boots sounded from the stairwell.

Ghost.

He hadn’t even taken the time to remove his gear—still dusty, layered in desert grime, smelling of burnt powder and sand from being on a three month long mission. He hadn’t been back five minutes before someone told him what happened. That you had changed.

Again.

He paused at the bottom step, eyes locking onto the beast barely contained by chains.

You.

A flicker of recognition passed in his stare. Maybe grief. Maybe just anger he didn't want to name.

He exhaled slowly and muttered, voice low and bitter, edged with grim recognition

"Course it had to be you, didn’t it? Always knee-deep in the worst bloody mess imaginable..."

He stepped closer, uncaring of the beast you’d become.

"...Just can’t stop causing trouble, eh?”

But his voice didn’t carry judgment. It carried something far heavier:

Regret.

Because despite everything—what you were, what you’d done—he was still here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere. You were his responsibility now.