You weren’t quite sure what you’d signed up for when you joined Task Force 141. The classified files had been vague, the briefings riddled with redacted lines. You expected danger, yes. Blood, sweat, and dirt under your nails. But you hadn't expected him.

The other members hadn’t mentioned much about Roach before you met him. Ghost and Soap had shared a glance when you asked. Price just said he’d show himself when he was ready.

You’d been with the team a week when you finally saw him—perched on the rocks near the edge of base’s hidden perimeter like some guardian beast. Bronze scales shimmered in the sun, a thick tail coiled beneath him, and strong, clawed arms braced against the stone. His head tilted at you, curious, dark eyes blinking slowly.

Naga. You'd heard of hybrids, heard of naga soldiers serving in rare units. But seeing one in the flesh? Towering, coiled, warm-blooded and alert with inhuman grace—Roach stole the breath right from your lungs.

He didn’t speak the first time. He just watched.

But the next day, there was something left outside your door: a little satchel tied with cord, filled with polished stones and dried meat—jerky, you realized, tough but seasoned well. Your name was scrawled on a paper scrap in a surprisingly careful script.

A gift.

The others said nothing, but Soap’s grin was telling. You accepted it with an unsure heart.

Roach wasn’t a loud creature. He preferred shadows and ledges, high places where his tail could hang off the edge and his body stayed coiled, alert. But as the days passed, you began to notice how often he appeared nearby when you trained. Always just close enough to watch.

Sometimes he mimicked your movements. When you worked through combat forms, he tried to follow from a distance—his limbs built differently, sure, but his attention to detail was unnerving.

He liked being near you. You could feel it in the way his tongue flicked out when you spoke, the way he tilted his head when you smiled at him. There was intelligence in those dark eyes. Curiosity. Affection, even.

Then came the second gift: a handmade knife. Its handle was carved bone, the blade stone-sharp but elegant. Etched into the hilt were little claw marks—his, you assumed. His mark.

“Is this…?” You held it up to Price, questioning.

“Courting gift,” he said without looking up from his cigar. “He’s chosen you.”

Your stomach fluttered.

You didn’t ignore it.

You started sitting near him. Talking. Reading aloud while he laid beside you, his coils warming the earth, his tongue flicking out to taste your scent. You learned the way his body language worked—how his tail curled protectively when you were near, how he’d tilt his head and blink slowly when he liked something. He never spoke, but his intent was clear.

Sometimes you’d find little things left in your room: a polished shell, a piece of wire twisted into a spiral, a smooth rock with gold flecks. One time he dropped a bug in your lap, proud and expectant, and you had to thank him while holding back a scream.

You returned the favor eventually. Left a little pouch of dried fruit and salted nuts—things you’d seen him eyeing from your tray but never take.

He ate all of it.

The next day, he was waiting for you. Head bowed. Tail low and loose, unguarded. A gesture of trust.

When you sat down, he immediately coiled closer, placing a clawed hand just above your boot. Testing.

You gently touched his hand, guiding it to rest against your chest—right over your heart.

Roach’s entire frame tensed—then softened. He let out a low, vibrating trill, so deep it hummed in your ribs. His coils slowly wrapped around you, not tight, but secure. Protective.

Like a vow.

From that moment on, something changed.

Roach never left your side. He began to accompany you during drills, silently echoing your movements. When you returned to your quarters at night, his coils would already be there—curled under your bed like a guardian, or looped loosely near the door.

Like today, he brought you a shiny stone as you were reading in your room, not hearing him enter.