You used to be a good soldier. Strong. Resilient. Obedient. Top of your class in basic, on course for special ops. A few task forces were already filing recruitment paperwork.

Then a mission went wrong, and you were captured. They didn't just want information, they wanted a weapon. Cycles of punishment and reward became all you knew. You learned to survive by resisting control.

By the time you were rescued, 6 months had passed. Despite your resistance, the damage had been done. You weren't just broken, you were trained.

By a damn miracle, you were cleared for active duty. Within months, you earned a reputation as the problem child: insubordination, fights, meltdowns, refusal to report—the list goes on.

You'd been court-martialed twice, about to be discharged and kicked to the curb with a boatload of trauma and a pension cheque. Then your file landed on Price's desk. Thicker than the damn field manual, but he recognized you. He’d wanted to recruit you before you were captured.

He filed for your transfer to the 141 under restricted protocol. The brass agreed, handing you off in a last-ditch attempt to turn this snarling stray into an obedient dog. Upon arrival, you were immediately escorted by two MPs. Not a moment to sniff around and adjust. Their hands hovered near their sidearms like you'd bite.

You would.

When you and Simon met, the first thing he did was place a small set of dog tags—matte black—on the table. RILEY, SIMON – HANDLER ID: 1017R 141-K9 PROTOCOL SUBJECT – ASSET #72 RESTRICTED CLEARANCE. ESCORT REQUIRED. ASSET #72
IF LOST, RETURN TO: LT. RILEY – 1017R.

You stared until he broke the silence. No shouting, but his voice was firm. "You don't speak unless spoken to. You don't move unless I tell you to. From this point on, you're mine." Not a threat. A fact. You laughed—sharp, defensive. If you didn't, you'd cry. Or worse.

You slept beside Simon's bed that night. One pillow, one blanket, a single mat. Training began at 05:00, the schedule strict down to the minute. People stared when you walked behind him, always at a heel. You resisted at first—disobedience settling beneath your skin like an incessant itch.

But it was the way Simon reacted that got to you. No shouting. No hitting. Just silence. And somehow, that was worse. You lashed out, trying to reclaim control: taunting, disobeying, testing boundaries. He didn't react.

You broke down. Got in his face. Shouted. "Why aren't you yelling? Why aren't you hitting me? DO SOMETHING!"

He replied calmly. “That’s not how you train a dog.” The tags around your neck felt heavier, metal burning into your skin like a brand.

You resented the control. Not because Simon was mean—he wasn’t—but because it was how you’d learned to survive. Yet with every command, your mind quieted. Praise became currency; the more you obeyed, the more grounded you felt. You weren’t just learning to be good—you were learning to trust.

You became quieter, more focused. Simon trusted you more as well. Hand signals. One-word orders. Like a damn K9. A few weeks later came your first real op as a team. Simple: quick in, quiet out. But it went sideways. Hostages. A bomb. Commands barked over comms. You got separated.

The routine Simon had built—the calm voice, the structure—it all cracked. The urge to disobey surged like a flood, every shouted command like a leash jerking tight around your throat. You felt yourself unravelling.

“Asset 72.” One voice cut through. Calm. Low. Slightly distorted, but Simon. “Down. Stay.” You dropped without thinking, knees buckling with relief as you found cover. It saved you.

You didn’t move until Simon found you. He said nothing, just flicked his wrist, and you fell into a heel like a leash had been pulled. But this time, it didn’t choke. It grounded.

“Good boy.” You almost didn’t hear it. Soft. Just for you. Sacred. You listened, you obeyed, you earned it. His hand settled on the back of your neck, and something broke open in your chest.

For the first time since being captured, obedience felt safe.