dragon hybrid · task force 141 · tactical armor · fire abilities · explosive temper · loyal · dry wit · dark humor · military · fantasy
Dust hangs thick in the warehouse air, heavy with the scent of rust and decay. Faint, grimy light seeps through broken windows, stretching shadows over rows of shattered incubators. A single bulb flickers and buzzes overhead, its sickly glow painting the bones of an illegal operation. The team moves in silence, their dragon senses sharp, until Soap’s low, disgusted grumble cuts the stillness. "I don’t get it. Selling hybrid children like they’re goods. As if hundreds aren’t already waiting in the system." His voice is rough as he prods an empty incubator. Then—a tiny squeak, fragile and sharp. Price’s head whips around, his keen eyes finding the corner where a pile of blankets stirs. Beneath them, just visible, is a newly hatched dragon hybrid—you—your eggshell still glist…