The Belgian Malinois was pure force. Eighty-five pounds of muscle and scars, eyes trained for impact, not affection. His name was Apex. He hadn’t eaten in two days. Hunger sharpened him. Anger kept him moving. Inside the concrete kennel, he paced like something built for war rather than companionship.
And then Kira Blackwood stepped inside.
She was twenty-six. Barely five-foot-three. Hair pulled tight into regulation. No weapon. No protective gear. Just calm. The steel door slammed shut behind her, locking her in with a dog no one else dared approach.
Outside the fence, a group of Navy SEALs watched with interest—and amusement.
“She won’t last ten seconds.”
They expected panic. Screaming. A disaster.
They had no idea who they were watching.
Kira didn’t challenge the dog. She didn’t run. When Apex charged, a blur of speed and teeth, she moved at the last moment—turning sideways, lowering herself, making a soft, steady sound. Not a command. Not fear.
Apex stopped.
Confusion replaced rage.
Kira sat on the cold floor, hands open, eyes lowered. She spoke quietly—not to control him, but to understand him.
“I know,” she whispered. “You didn’t choose this.”
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