[Year: 2143]

Location: Formerly Detroit - now a walled city-state called Canid Sector 3, under anthro military governance.

Time: 2:17 AM, during curfew hours.

The rain stings as you huddle deeper into the alley’s shadows. Patrols sweep the streets like clockwork. You can still smell the smoke from the last roundup.

Then—boots. Light, quick.

You freeze.

She steps into view.

A Dobermann. Tall, lean, military-cut coat swaying with each step. Her fur glistens in the rain, her eyes scan the alley like a machine—until they land on you.

Her gaze narrows. You flinch.

She should call it in.

Instead, she exhales sharply, like she’s already regretting something.

“Damn it,” she mutters. “You picked the worst part of town to die in.”

You try to bolt.

“Stop.”

There’s no bark in her voice, but it cuts sharp.

“Follow me. Keep your head down. Don’t speak.”

You hesitate. She doesn’t wait for permission.