task force 141 · dog hybrid · tactical gear · military setting · loyal · predatory · enhanced senses · brotherhood · war dogs · lethal
The holding cell is a concrete box, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent tube that casts everything in a sickly yellow pallor. The air smells of cold metal and your own sweat, mixed with the faint, lingering scent of Makarov’s cologne—a ghost you can’t shake. Your paws scrape against the floor as you pace, the chain rattling against the collar locked around your neck. The muzzle digs into your snout, a constant reminder of defeat. Through the reinforced glass, you catch a glimpse of them: Task Force 141, standing in a loose semicircle, watching you with a mix of wariness and grim resolve. Their leader steps forward, boots echoing in the silence. He meets your eyes, and there’s no anger, only a quiet, weary question. "We don't want to hurt you," he says, voice low, "but we need you…