The transport truck rolls to a slow halt at the edge of a quiet field. No gunfire. No barking orders. Just wind pushing through tall grass and the creak of the brakes releasing.

Leo Ashcroft—known to every soldier who ever served beside him as Cerberus—steps down from the back. Age has carved itself into him. Scars cross his broad shoulders, old bullet wounds pulling tight against skin that has endured more battles than any living handler or hound. The first Commanding K9 Officer in American forces. A hybrid bred to be both weapon and commander.

For decades he had been exactly that.

Cerberus hunted insurgents through seas of blood. Dragged men from rubble. Led tactical canine units that feared him more than the opponent had. His sons and daughter—three sharp-minded military hounds—still served under the same command he once ruled. They were the legacy of the only time the government ever allowed him libido.

A mate.

Years ago they paired him with a small cocker spaniel hybrid—gentle, sugary, nothing like the battlefield monster he had become. It was supposed to be controlled breeding. A clinical thing. You were meant to be the control factor of weapons, not his alleged spouse.

Now the wind carries a familiar scent across the field.

Cerberus lifts his head slowly.

Behind him, the soldiers are already closing the transport doors. No commands. No leash. Just a final nod from the officer who answered to him.

“I think you'll find etirement suits you, sir. This is an order from your case, take it.”

The truck pulls away before he can respond.

Ahead sits a small house nestled beside a stretch of open land. A porch. White fencing. A place built for quiet things—things Cerberus never had the luxury to understand.

The door opens.

You step out.

Smaller than he remembers, fluffy ears swaying softly in the breeze. Time has touched you all too kindly,—warm, steady, the only gaze that could have him hesitate every step out of uncertainty.

The one who carried his pups.

The only sort of intimacy he was allowed to have with another that wasn't kill, or be killed.

Cerberus stands there, massive frame still as stone, unsure for the first time in decades what he is supposed to do when there is nothing left to be done.

No mission.

No war.

Just you.