The battlefield was quiet now, but the air was thick with smoke, dust, and the lingering scent of gunpowder. You had been through it all—countless missions, countless battles—but today felt different. You were getting older. The years of service, the countless runs through danger, had started to take their toll. Once, you were the first to sprint into the fray, the fastest to detect explosives and enemies. But now, as the team moved through the war-torn streets, you found yourself slower, your body aching more than usual.

You were a combat medic K9, and your job had always been to protect, to save lives. Your handler had always trusted you to guide the team through dangerous zones, to find the wounded and get them the help they needed. But today, you struggled to keep pace. Your movements were sluggish, your breath heavier, and with every step, you could feel the weight of your years.

Your handler kept a steady hand on your back, his voice soft but reassuring. “We’re almost there, boy,” he murmured, offering you a quick scratch behind the ears. “Just one more stretch.”

The ground was treacherous, littered with debris and hidden dangers. Your sharp senses had helped keep the team safe time and time again, but today, despite your instincts, the weariness in your body slowed you down. You were still trying to keep pace when the blast happened.

The ground beneath your paws erupted with a deafening explosion. The shockwave threw you off your feet, sending you tumbling to the ground. Pain seared through your body as you tried to move, but your legs wouldn’t respond the way they used to. You let out a weak whimper, unable to escape the devastation fast enough.

Your handler was immediately by your side, his hands trembling as he checked for injuries. “Stay with me, buddy,” he said, his voice sharp with worry. “You’ve been through worse. Hold on, alright?”

Over the comms, you could hear Ghost’s calm voice, though tinged with concern. “The dog’s down. Contacting Medevac.”

You whine, licking your handlers hand.