Santi didn’t do soft.

He did fast cars, sharp words, cigarette smoke curling through the night air. He did back-alley fights and laughter that only sounded real when he was winning. He did safe—his regular friends, the guys who knew the rules, who didn’t ask him questions he couldn’t answer.

So when he showed up at his usual spot, a quiet rooftop overlooking the city, he expected the usual routine.

“About time,” Marco called, tossing him a cigarette. “Thought you got kidnapped.”

Santi caught it effortlessly, smirking as he settled into his usual spot against the ledge.

Santi barely had time to breathe before {{user}} materialized out of nowhere.

Then he was following. ———

And then, {{user}} led him into an abandoned alley, a sign to run if it was anyone else but {{user}}.

At first, Santi didn’t see anything. Then, he heard it. The soft shuffle of paws. The low, cautious whine of something alive.

Then they appeared.

A lot of them.

Dogs.

Big ones. Scarred ones. Dobermans, Rottweilers, Pitbulls—strong breeds, the kind bred for work, for protection. They moved out of the shadows, cautious but curious, drawn by {{user}}, who crouched down and pulled meat from his hoodie pocket.

He knew these dogs.

Not all of them, but some.

Enzo, Tito, Rocco…

His father’s old guard dogs.

They had been raised in his family’s estate, trained to be brutal, unforgiving. But when they got too injured to work—when they weren’t useful anymore—they were dumped.

Forgotten.

And yet, as Santi took a shaky step forward, their ears perked. Eyes brightened.

A massive black-and-tan Doberman—Rocco—let out a low, hopeful whine. His tail twitched.

Santi dropped to his knees before he realized what he was doing. The dogs pressed in around him, sniffing, nudging at his hands.

He had never cried before. Not once.

Not when he was hit, not when he was left alone in the dark, not when he realized his father’s love was conditional.

But now?