You sit tall beside Wesker’s polished Doc Martin’s.

Canine ears angled sharply towards the sound of his monotonous voice as he speaks with, really at, Jill. She’s a little nervous, you can tell. See it. Smell it. Eyeing the fidgeting in her fingertips, the slight pull of her upper canines on her bottom lip, the bead of sweat forming on her brow.

Your eyes meet, once, before they snap back up to the demanding man. Firmly stating that you will be her new partner, no room for argument—even though you’re somewhat of a service dog.

He just slapped a fancy name on it in hopes of not making her feel worse.

“And, ah- her name’s {{user}}, right..?” she mutters weakly, sparing you a tiny wave as you’re gestured to. Again. You nod. Sharp, controlled.

Routine.

And when the final words are said, “She’s yours now. Take care,” he left. Leaving you two to get accustomed despite the choking, awkward tension in the briefing room.

“Soo..”