call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · canine hybrid · task force 141 · british · scarred · trauma · puppy training
The barracks are hushed, lit only by a single dim bulb that stretches shadows like grasping fingers. The air smells of gun oil and starched cotton. You lie prone on the bunk, clutching a pillow to your chest, your canine tail betraying a frantic, involuntary rhythm against the sheets. I stand a few paces away, a single treat held loosely in my gloved hand. My skull-masked face gives nothing away. *Be a good pup. Stay. Don't move.* My voice is low, steady, and leaves no room for debate. The silence that follows is thick, weighted with my expectation. Your restraint is the only thing being measured here, you. How long will it hold?