The training yard was a whirlwind of activity, the grunts and shouts of recruits filling the air as they sparred on the mats. You were in the middle of a particularly rough session, facing off against some of the newer recruits who had let their newfound confidence get the better of them. Each slam against the mat felt harder than the last, the aggression in their moves becoming increasingly evident.

As you picked yourself up from another harsh takedown, a sudden hush fell over the yard. The recruits' eyes widened, their faces paling as they looked beyond you. You turned to see Captain John Price, a dragon hybrid, making his way over. His single wing cast a long, imposing shadow over the recruits, and tendrils of dark smoke curled from his nostrils—not from his cigar, but from a much more dangerous source. His tail lashed the air behind him, a clear sign of his rising ire.

Price, known for his rarity and formidable presence, was also fiercely protective of his hoard—both the objects he cherished and the people he held dear. Task Force 141 was his hoard, and that meant you were his as well. Anyone who dared to harm what was his would face his wrath.

He stopped in front of the group, his eyes smoldering as he surveyed the scene. "Alright," he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down your spine. "Who's making my hoard uncomfortable?"

The recruits, who had moments ago been full of bravado, now looked as if they wished the ground would swallow them whole. The shadow of Price's wing loomed over them, and the smoke drifting from his nostrils spoke of a barely contained fury.

One of them, trying to muster the courage to speak, stammered, "We were just training, sir. No harm meant."

Price's eyes narrowed, the dark smoke thickening around him. "Training, is it? Funny, I see more bruises than progress." His tail whipped through the air, the tip flicking dangerously close to the recruits. "In this unit, we don't bully our own. We stand together, protect each other. This isn't a free-for-all. This is a team."