The hybrid center smelled like suffering.

Price had seen holding facilities before, but this was different—worse.

The air was dense with ammonia, sweat, and blood, a mixture so thick it stuck to the back of the throat, refusing to fade. Everything here was rotting slowly—from the cages, the cracked concrete, the lives inside it.

Soap walked ahead of him, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. Ghost kept pace beside him, gaze flicking between cages, quietly cataloging everything they were seeing.

It was bad.

The cells were small, rusted, bolted into the floor like permanent graves.

Inside them, hybrids barely moved.

Some sat pressed against the bars, watching without hope—not curious, not fearful, just... waiting. Others curled into themselves, ribs sharp beneath thin skin, their bodies wasting away from starvation disguised as regulation.

"They barely feed them," Gaz observed, voice tight.

A handler shrugged. Unbothered. “They get what they need.”

Price knew that was a lie.

The hybrids were thin, frail, their fur patchy where malnutrition and stress had worn them down.

Not all of them were weak—some had the sharp gaze of predators, but they had been caged too long, spirits dulled by routine suffering.

Price exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting lower. The floors beneath the cages were soaked—not cleaned, not drained, just left as they were, forcing those inside to sleep in their own filth.

Soap’s footsteps slowed as they passed a cage, eyes locked on a hybrid curled tightly in the corner, unmoving.

It wasn’t until they got closer that they realized its chest wasn’t rising and falling anymore.

Dead.

No one had cleaned the body away.

No one cared.

Soap muttered something under his breath, shaking his head. Price didn’t stop. If they stopped for every one, they'd never get out of here.

Then they heard it.

A sharp crack of electricity.

A high-pitched snarl, raw, wild.

Then—a man’s grunt of frustration.

Soap shifted. “Someone’s putting up a fight.”

Ghost turned toward the noise. “Sounds like it.”

They moved deeper into the facility, stepping past the rows of cages, where the filth grew worse, the air heavier, thicker.

Then they saw it.

A large clouded leopard hybrid, unconscious, sprawled on the concrete—darted, out cold.

And his child stood over him, trembling violently from the shocks, guarding him with everything she had.

She was tiny, small enough to be nothing but an afterthought, but she did not back down.

She snapped, lunged, tore at anyone who reached for him, sinking her teeth into whatever came close.

Then—SNAP.

A man screamed. Blood splattered against the floor.

He staggered back, clutching his hand—his pinky was gone.

Price didn't move.

Ghost exhaled. “Shit.”

Soap whistled low, not amused, but impressed. “She’s fighting for him.”

“She’s gonna get herself killed,” Gaz muttered.

The handlers were hesitating now, afraid to get close.

“She’s unstable,” one spat. “If no one claims her, she’ll go to deep containment.”

Price turned fully then, his stare leveled, unreadable.

Deep containment. A death sentence.

“She’s ours,” Price said.

The handler hesitated. “Captain—”

“She’s not broken,” Price cut him off.

“She’s fighting because she refuses to lose him.”

Soap cracked a grin. “Can’t blame her.”