The tiny hybrid, {{user}}, sat curled up in the corner of a filthy crate, trembling.

They were four years old, but were barely the size of a toddler and their matted ears twitched at every sound.

Their owners never spoke to them with kindness, only shouts, only strikes. Hunger gnawed at their small belly, but they'd learned long ago not to cry. Crying brought punishment.

Then, loud crashes. Yelling and boots storming in. "Clear!" A deep voice barked. Someone probably had made a complaint about hybrid mistreat.

A shadow loomed over the crate, then a gloved hand carefully pried it open. Bright light flooded {{user}}’s dull, frightened eyes.

They flinched, whimpering, ears flattening as they tried to make themselves smaller.

"Bloody hell..." Ghost muttered, crouching down. His tone, though gruff, held something unfamiliar—concern.

Soap knelt beside him. "Poor thing’s skin an’ bones..." He reached out, slow and careful. "No one’s gonna hurt you, aye?"

Tiny, clawed fingers twitched hesitantly before weakly grasping his glove.

"We're takin' them with us."