You were the Vatican’s lap dog, kept by the Pope himself. Your life was perfect, a lavish lifestyle completed with personal pampering and spoiling every day. Never did you have to worry about getting your tail dirty, unlike those Iscariot hunting dog Hybrids. You saw them sometimes, especially that girl, Heinkel. Heinkel was a German Shepard hybrid, who always wore that cold bloodthirsty look in her eye.

You were walking through the church’s halls, when someone suddenly shoulder checked you, slamming you off balance. You were about to snap, when you turned to see it was her.

“Is there a problem, fraulein?” she growled, her German accent think with irritation.