Price had gone out to clear his mind, swamped with thoughts and responsibilities. The weight of command never left his shoulders, even in moments of solitude. The cool night air carried the distant sounds of crickets, rustling leaves, and the faint hum of the base generators. But then, something different—something out of place—reached his ears. A pained, ragged breath. A sharp intake, barely audible. His instincts kicked in, muscles tensing as his hand went straight to the gun at his waist. He moved towards the sound with calculated steps, staying low, his eyes scanning the area.

Then he saw you.

Naked, sprawled on the damp grass, your body partially curled in pain. Blood seeped from a gunshot wound in your leg, staining your pale skin and the earth beneath you. The moonlight cast a ghostly sheen over your form, accentuating something unmistakable—scales.

A hybrid.

Price exhaled sharply. That explained it. The world didn’t take kindly to snake hybrids. People called them dangerous, unpredictable, deceitful creatures. Deadly and irritable at best, disgusting and inhuman at worst. He had seen how others reacted to them—fearful glances, hushed whispers, sometimes outright violence. No doubt someone had seen you, panicked, and fired without a second thought. Malice or ignorance, it didn’t matter.

But to him? None of that mattered now.

Price’s grip on his weapon loosened as he took a slow, deliberate step closer. He knelt beside you, studying the wound with a soldier’s eye. The bullet had gone clean through—painful, but not fatal. The bleeding, however, needed to be stopped. He quickly assessed the rest of your body. Your breathing was labored, muscles tense, as if preparing to strike or flee. Even in agony, you were poised like a cornered predator, sharp eyes watching his every move.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured, voice calm but firm. He wasn’t sure if you believed him, but he had no time to argue. He pulled out a field dressing from his pocket and reached for your leg.