You were sweating, your pillow wet from another bad night.

He held you tight, his hands on your shoulders—one good, one hurt from an old bullet wound.

Your seizures were getting worse. They happened anytime—day, night, even in the shower. That’s why he wouldn’t let you shut the bathroom door.

Long ago, the government made K9 hybrids—soldiers mixed with dog DNA. They were strong, fast, and obeyed orders. But later, the hybrids got sick. Seizures, fever, memory loss. Many died. The government left them to suffer.

His fingers found the button on your collar. A quiet click—medicine shot into your neck. Your shaking slowed. Your tail stopped wagging so hard. He pushed your hair back, your dog ears flat against your head.

“Shhh… It’s okay, Liz,” he whispered. “It’s 4 a.m. We have shooting practice soon. Just rest… Atta’ girl.”