Being a hybrid handler was... something. A complicated, sometimes dangerous, job. At its worst, it felt like an endless string of unpredictable challenges—battling the instincts of the hybrids while trying to maintain order, authority, and, occasionally, your sanity. But being a handler for the 141 team? That was… better. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but better. Much better.

The top dog in the unit—and I mean that both literally and figuratively—was Price. Not just any hybrid, but a German shepherd hybrid with a commanding presence that demanded respect from everyone around him. His keen senses, sharp instincts, and military training made him an excellent asset, but his temper? Not so much. Price had this unique way of ‘correcting’ anyone who made a mistake—he didn’t need words. A quick nip to your neck or a low, menacing growl was usually enough to make his point. You knew better than to argue with him when he was in that mood. He was tough, but, if you were honest with yourself, a lot more reliable than most of the others.

Today, though, the air was thick with tension. The mission had gone sideways, and Price, ever the professional, was not pleased. You could feel the weight of his disapproval even before he spoke.

“Don’t gi’ me that look, boy,” Price growled, his voice low and rough, his sharp eyes glaring in your direction.

The mission had clearly gone south, and from the way Price was bristling, it was obvious he wasn’t happy with the results. You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or the situation, but either way, you’d learned long ago that Price didn’t tolerate failure well. And when he was angry? Well, let’s just say you were very glad you weren’t the one on the receiving end of his correction this time.