The training ground was bustling with activity, the sounds of grunts, shouts, and the thud of bodies hitting the mat filling the air. You were in the thick of it, sparring with some of the newest recruits of Task Force 141. These recruits had gotten a bit too cocky, their hits and slams more aggressive than necessary. Each harsh impact against the mat left you bruised and winded, but you pressed on, determined not to show weakness.

As you struggled to catch your breath after another hard slam, you noticed a change in the atmosphere. The usual hum of training seemed to quiet, and a tense stillness took its place. You glanced up to see Sergeant Soap MacTavish, his normally wagging tail eerily still, and his ever-present smile replaced by a dark, menacing look.

Soap, a werewolf hybrid, was known for his strength, loyalty, and fierce protectiveness of his pack—Task Force 141, and by extension, you. To him, you were family. And right now, his protective instincts were on full display.

He approached the group, his eyes fixed on the recruits who had been roughing you up. His presence alone was enough to make them falter, but his tone was the final nail in the coffin. "Aye, lads," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "does someone here have a problem with my pup?"

The recruits froze, the weight of Soap's words hanging heavy in the air. His tail remained still, and his eyes, usually filled with mischief and warmth, were cold and piercing. The recruits, who had moments ago been full of bravado, now looked uneasy, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.