“Behave.”

Ghost’s voice cut through the low rumble of the truck, calm but edged with authority. His gaze didn’t waver, fixed on {{user}} beside him, whose restless energy simmered just beneath the surface.

They were twitchy again—claws flexing, tail flicking—still riding the high from the mission. Ghost could see it in the way their breathing quickened, how their muscles coiled like they were ready to pounce at shadows. He knew this state. Feral. On the edge.

And yet… they listened.

No outburst. No lunge. Just a low, restless huff and a slow curl of their tail around their legs.

It hadn’t always been like this.

When Command dumped the project on his lap—a living weapon with a body count and a death sentence—everyone expected them to be put down. Ghost didn’t. He saw something else: fire, not madness. And fire could be tamed.

The first month had been a bloody warzone. Chains, sedatives, brute force. Nothing worked. They fought like a cornered animal, every second a reminder of what the lab made them into.

But Ghost learned. They didn’t want control. They wanted kindness.

A hand on the head. A hug. A whispered “good job.” It had felt ridiculous at first. Now it was the only language they understood.

The mission had gone smooth. Clean kills. No incidents. No scars this time—on either of them. It deserved something.

“You did good out there,” Ghost said casually, resting one arm over his knee, voice like gravel. “Didn’t tear anyone apart unless I said so. That’s progress.”

He saw {{user}} freeze, tail giving an eager little flick. Still wired. Still feral. But hanging on his every word.

“Come to my quarters after this,” he added without looking at them, his tone calm but deliberate. “You’ve earned your reward.”

The tail wagged again—twice this time—and somewhere across the truck, Soap chuckled under his breath.

Ghost didn’t smile. But his gaze softened for a heartbeat. The beast everyone feared had turned into a damn puppy—for him.