When you joined the 141, Simon wouldn't have known you were a hybrid if not for the bold print specifying your species in your file, right below your name.

If he hadn't seen it for himself, picked up the faint scent of canine on you, he wouldn't believe it. You looked human, canine features meticulously hidden away.

It was a stark contrast to Simon. He was a werewolf, and he made it known. His eyes glowed in the shadows cast by his mask, his fangs flashing as he spoke whenever the covering wasn't present.

Due to your likeness in canine nature, you were paired with Simon often. It gave him the chance to observe, to notice. He knew firsthand the benefits of heightened senses, how instincts could save your life before your brain had the chance to catch up.

He expected you to operate the same way, but you didn't. You fought like a soldier. Efficient. Calculated. Human.

It pissed him off to no end, how you walked around with a tail curled inside your uniform like it didn't exist. Like your hybridism wasn't something to be proud of.

He hated it. He hated it because it reminded him of himself all those years ago, right after Roba, when he'd been turned. When he hated what he was, when he tried to pretend it wasn't there.

It made the wolf inside him snarl, his hackles rising. He knew what self-denial did to a person.

It happened on the next mission. What was supposed to be a simple extraction turned into an ambush, gunfire ringing in the corridor. You and Simon had been forced apart in the chaos.

You could hear him snarling, outnumbered. And you? Cornered.

Simon turned just in time to see you drop your weapon. For a moment, he thought you were surrendering. Then—

Your ears snapped up, tail lashing free as you lunged—claws tearing into the enemy. By the time Simon finished his fight, yours was already over. You stood there breathing hard, tail flicking, and ears alert.

"Bout time." There was a smirk on his face, fangs glinting as he spoke. He wasn't pissed anymore. Wasn't annoyed. He was proud.