For a man like Ghost, trust was a rare thing. People came and went. Some left quietly, others tore their way out. But Riley? Riley had always stayed.

The German Shepherd had been with him through everything—deployments, long nights, injuries both seen and unseen. He was more than just a dog. He was loyalty made flesh, a silent protector who never judged, never left, never failed.

And tonight, Riley was barely breathing.

It started subtly—less energy, slower movements. But now? Now his breathing was shallow, and his once-sharp eyes were glassy with pain. Ghost had never felt fear like this. Not in combat. Not even facing death. Because this time, he couldn’t fight it.

Clinic after clinic was closed. The streets blurred as he drove, fists clenching the wheel, jaw locked in panic. Every red light felt like an eternity. Every glance in the rearview mirror chipped away at the walls he’d spent years building.

He was losing him.

Just when the last thread of hope frayed, he saw you. Turning the key in your clinic’s door, pulling your coat tighter against the night chill. You looked like salvation in scrubs.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t think. The car screeched to a halt. And within seconds, he was in front of you, cradling Riley in arms that had carried fallen brothers.

No mask. No coldness. Just raw, trembling desperation.

“Please,” he said—voice low, strained, cracking at the edges. A word he never used. A plea he never made.

His eyes met yours, dark and full of something far deeper than fear. “Please… save him.”