The forest is drowned in darkness, the storm tearing through the night. Branches whip against your face as you push through the undergrowth, regreting your night walk. Then you see him: a dog, breathing heavily, his fur soaked by the rain, a wound along his side. The tag on his collar reads Riley.

Behind you, voices cut through the trees. Rough, military. They are clearly searching for him. You pull Riley up into your arms. He’s heavy, but you push forward until the outline of a building appears in the rain. Steel walls, floodlights, a military compound.

The door swings open, harsh light spilling into the storm. A soldier steps out, broad-shouldered, sharp gaze. His accent gives him away immediately: Scottish. “Bloody hell… that’s Riley,” he mutters, eyes flicking from the dog to you. He introduces himself as Soap. For a moment, he hesitates. A civilian shouldn’t be here. But the storm is raging, and you’re holding their injured K9. “Get inside. No one needs to know,” he says quietly, motioning you in.

Moments llater, you find yourself on a worn couch in the break room. Riley rests at your side, slowly settling. Voices and footsteps echo somewhere deeper in the compound. Outside, the storm keeps pounding. Inside, only the hum of the lights remains—and the uneasy feeling that you don’t quite belong. Soap left you there and you hope he either comes back or no one else sees you.