"Put the puppy down." Price’s voice cut sharply through the stillness of the warehouse. "We’re not here to pet dogs—we’re on a mission. Focus."

He rolled his eyes and moved on, boots echoing against the concrete floor.

{{user}} lingered a moment, cradling the wrinkled little British bulldog that had waddled out from behind a stack of crates.

"He kind of looks like you," {{user}} muttered with a smirk, scratching the pup behind its ears.

Price didn’t need to turn around to know what was happening. He knew {{user}} had a soft spot for animals—always had—but out here, sentiment could be a liability.

"We’ll come back for him if we can," he said over his shoulder, softer now. "But right now, I need you sharp."