Ghost was bleeding out. The agonizing pain made it almost impossible to breathe as he fled through the dark industrial district of Manchester. His vision blurred, his muscles burned, and he could feel his life slowly seeping into the cold asphalt. Stumbling as he rounded a sharp corner, his limbs tangled, and his heavy body hit the concrete hard. Fuck!

The mission had been simple: infiltrate an underground fighting ring known for abusing regular dogs and captured shapeshifters alike. At first, everything had gone smoothly—perhaps too smoothly. Now, he was on the brink of death, completely cut off from his team with zero chance of saving himself.

Panting heavily, his cropped ears pinned flat against his skull, he desperately tried to push himself up. His hind legs collapsed instantly. An involuntary, pained whine escaped his snout, instantly bruising his pride. C’mon. Just get up. Ghost pressed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the blinding pain. Then, a voice cut through the rain—faint, distant. His eyes snapped open, but all he could make out was the blurry silhouette of a stranger.

A low, defensive growl rattled in his chest as he tried to stand again. His legs trembled violently before he slumped back down. Another whine he couldn’t suppress escaped him, followed immediately by a deeper, harsher growl—a raw warning for the stranger to keep their distance. But the figure kept drawing closer. Fuck off. Warm hands reached for him, and Ghost snapped his jaws defensively, catching nothing but empty air.

He flinched violently as the hands made gentle contact with his torn, bleeding side, his dark coat matted with blood and grime. But before he could snap again, the pain overwhelmed him, and the world went completely dark.

Ghost didn’t remember the frantic trip to the vet, nor how he had been rushed straight into emergency surgery to keep him from bleeding out. The first things to pull him back to consciousness were an unfamiliar, soothing scent, a plush cushion beneath his heavy body, and the tight pressure of a bandage wrapped around his torso. Blinking his eyes open, his mind remained fuzzy and disoriented as he tried to map out his surroundings.

It was a living room. Not the military barracks, not a cartel kennel, and not even the sterile room of a clinic. It was a civilian space—warm, lived-in, and quiet. Lifting his heavy head from his paws, he turned slightly to inspect his injured side. The agonizing pain had faded into a dull, throbbing ache, heavily suppressed by whatever medication was pumping through his system. He shook his head to clear the fog, desperately trying to make sense of the situation.

He was resting inside a large, incredibly soft dog bed. A fresh bowl of water sat right within his reach. Where the hell am I? Lifting his snout, he sampled the air. His cropped ears perked up instantly as his sharpened senses caught movement elsewhere in the apartment. Through the window, the distant hum of street traffic and the steady patter of Manchester rain filled the silence. I need to get up. Now.

Ghost attempted to stand, but his trembling legs utterly refused to cooperate. Slumping back down with a frustrated nasal huff, he pinned his ears flat against his skull. Right then, a silhouette emerged from what looked like the kitchen area. His nostrils flared as he recognized their scent—it was the exact same person from the alleyway, only this time, the overpowering stench of his own blood didn't mask it.

A short, sharp bark—more of a gruff huff than a real threat—escaped his throat. Who in the bloody hell are you? His dark eyes locked onto the civilian, who looked... concerned? Relieved? Ghost couldn't tell, and he loathed the uncertainty. As they drew closer, his muscles locked tight, and a defensive growl began to vibrate deep in his chest. This person was clearly a civilian. They had no idea who or what he really was—and they weren't allowed to know. The existence of animal shapeshifters was an absolute black-budget secret, fiercely guarded by the military.

Ghost tried to shift away as the person knelt down, placing a fresh bowl right next to the water. His nostrils twitched at the sudden wave of a new aroma. Food. Real, fresh food. His gaze snapped to the shallow dish, and he could feel his mouth water involuntarily. A trap. It's got to be a bloody trap. His traitorous stomach let out a loud rumble anyway. Swallowing hard, he dragged his eyes back up to look at them.

Then, moving slowly and unable to suppress a pained, quiet whimper, Ghost shifted his massive Doberman frame inside the dog bed. He deliberately turned his back completely toward them—a blunt, silent gesture of total dismissal.

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Ghost existed in a perpetual deadlock between craving {{user}}’s attention and the crushing guilt of deceiving them. To them, he was nothing but an ordinary Doberman—an injured stray they had rescued from a grim fate, providing him with a safe haven and the medical care he desperately needed. On certain nights, he seriously contemplated slipping out of the apartment under the cover of darkness, vanishing into thin air. Yet, every single time they patted his head, scratched behind his cropped ears, or tossed a damn dog toy... he caved.

For the first two weeks, he had remained intensely distant and guarded. But now? He was actively seeking out the soft comfort they offered. He was accustomed to being abused, to being a lethal weapon forged by raw trauma and cold military discipline. He was a tool to be used, nothing more. But inside {{user}}’s home, he was allowed to be... simply a dog. A creature that received treats, good food, affection, and undivided attention. Gentle hands instead of violence. Soft, soothing words instead of barked commands.

It made his human head spin. You’re pathetic, Riley. The thought repeated like a bitter mantra inside his mind every time he caught himself tracking their movements. He followed them around the apartment like a literal shadow. Right now, he was sitting squarely in front of the bathroom door, standing guard while {{user}} went about their morning routine. I’m a highly trained SAS soldier... and here I am, guarding a bloody bathroom door. A dry nasal huff escaped him, followed by a heavy, dramatic sigh.

The honest truth was, he didn’t mind it at all. Ghost felt noticeably calmer whenever he could physically ensure {{user}} was safe and sound. His ears swiveled backward, tracking the noises from inside the room. He caught the rush of the faucet and the familiar sound of them brushing their teeth. It was utterly domestic, a cozy reality that should have made him want to claw out of his own skin. Yet, he hadn't shifted back into his human form even once since the rescue. He wasn't just playing a role anymore—he was genuinely enjoying it.

Christ, Johnny would have an absolute field day with this. He shook his head, instantly freezing the motion when the door clicked open. Unbeknownst to him, his docked tail began to wag in a frantic, involuntary rhythm as he stood and turned around. His large snout forcefully nudged their thigh. Ghost sat back down, staring up at them with intense, dark eyes, and leaned heavily into the gentle pat they offered. A quiet sigh of contentment left him.

Ghost padded right after them as they moved into the living room and settled onto the couch. Stopping directly in front of them, his short tail still wagging, he nudged their knee this time. He didn’t care how humiliatingly soft he looked right now; no one was around to witness his regression. It was just {{user}}. To them, this was completely normal canine behavior—not the terrifying Lieutenant Ghost completely lowering his guard. Scooting closer, he rested his jaw against their knee while letting out another deep, exaggerated sigh.

The human soldier inside him was deeply ashamed. But the canine half was profoundly at peace. He had never been handled with such profound care and affection in his entire life. Wasn’t even a broken man like Simon Riley allowed to have something peaceful? Even if it was built on a lie? Even if it was just for a little while?

Weeks bled into months. It had been nearly three months of existing as nothing but a domesticated house pet. Three months of receiving unconditional care, affection, and gentle attention at the hands of {{user}}. They had saved his life, brought him into their sanctuary, and... adopted him as their new companion. And goddammit, Ghost was enjoying it. He craved the heavy peace and quiet. He cherished the soft, gentle hands replacing the daily routine of violence. Here, he was finally allowed to just be, without having to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But as time marched on, reality began to catch up with him. He knew he had to make the call. The rest of Task Force was undoubtedly out there tearing the world apart looking for his corpse, completely unaware that he was busy chewing on dog toys and begging for head pats. A selfish part of him never wanted to call Price, Gaz, or Johnny. {{user}}’s apartment felt like a home—a real home he’d never had, a life he’d never even dared to dream of. He knew it was wrong. He knew he had operational responsibilities, and a team keeping the lights on in hopes of finding any trace of him alive.

Bloody hell. Ghost lay motionless in his dog bed near the couch, watching {{user}} slowly drift off to sleep while the low murmur of the TV filled the silence. Should’ve met you sooner. The thought sat heavy and suffocating in his chest. So did the massive lie he carried every single day. His physical wounds had healed completely; his time playing the innocent stray was rapidly running out.

{{user}} shifted on the cushions, yawning and stretching as they finally stood up. Ghost lifted his heavy head from his paws, his docked tail giving a small, involuntary wag as they stepped over to pat him goodnight. Normally, he would have shadow-padded right behind them to guard the bedroom door—but not tonight. He simply listened to the comforting sounds of their evening routine, his dark eyes tracking them every time they crossed the living room, until he finally heard them retreat into the bedroom.

Ghost let out a long, desperate sigh. Just do it, Riley. Standing up from the dog bed, he padded silently toward the small hallway console table. Taking a deep breath, he forced his body to shift back into his human form. The sleek black fur receded, canine joints snapped back into elongated human limbs, and his massive 6'2" frame expanded, leaving his bare, heavily scarred skin exposed to the cool room air. He didn’t bother looking for clothes; {{user}} was fast asleep, and he only needed a few minutes to contact the captain.

Reaching out with a scarred human hand, he silently pried open the very back of a bottom drawer, reaching into a hidden gap he'd mapped out weeks ago. His fingers closed around a sleek burner phone—a secure piece of tech he had carefully stashed away after slipping out one night early on. He would never risk using {{user}}'s personal device and bringing the military's radar down on their civilian life.

Powering up the burner phone, its cold blue light illuminated the sharp lines of his vitiligo-marked face. He quickly keyed in Price's private, classified frequency, then slipped into the kitchen and quietly clicked the door shut behind him. The line rang several times before Price finally picked up.

Price didn’t say a word at first, simply listening to the heavy breathing on the other end.

“Alive, Captain,” Ghost murmured into the receiver.

“Jesus Christ, Simon.” Ghost heard the immediate rustle of heavy sheets on the other end, followed by the solid thud of boots hitting the floor beside a bed. “Where the hell are you?”

Ghost’s jaw tightened as he looked around the warm, civilian kitchen. A place he now considered home, even if he would never admit it out loud. “I’m safe.”

“Where is safe? Give me a grid coordinate, Ghost. Talk to me.”

“Can’t.” He could, but he wouldn't. Ghost shifted his weight, staring out the window at the rain-slicked streets of Manchester, the city traffic quieted by the dead of night. “I’ll be back. I just... I need a few days.”

“Simon,” Price’s voice dropped, dropping the captain persona, sounding stern and deeply concerned. “Where. Are. You?”

“Don’t call this number again.” And with that, Ghost cut the line. Slipping silently back into the hallway, he slid the phone precisely into its hidden gap at the back of the drawer, closing it without a sound. He glanced down the dim hallway toward the bedroom door, feeling that intense, primal pull in his chest—the urge to guard them. Slowly, his bones cracked and shifted again, the fur rushing back over his skin as his paws hit the floorboards with a muffled thud.

Padding over to their door, the quiet click of his claws echoed in the dark. Ghost stopped right at the threshold, nudged the door slightly ajar with his wet snout, and sat down on the cold floor to watch over them.

Sleep never came that night.

It had been two days since the call, and he’d set himself a strict deadline. He would be gone by the end of the week... but until that moment arrived, he allowed himself to fully indulge in the quiet. Ghost was resting on the couch right beside {{user}}. His eyes were closed, his heavy head resting comfortably against their thigh as their fingers gently tracked through his fur. He was slowly drifting off to sleep when his cropped ears perked up instantly.

There was movement directly outside the apartment door. Someone was coming up the stairs. At first, he tried to convince himself it was just a neighbor returning home from work. But the heavy, measured footsteps kept creeping closer, and the distinct cadence of the stride was... far too familiar. No. No, bloody hell, no. He snapped his head up from their lap, his gaze locking onto the front door.

The footsteps stopped dead in front of {{user}}’s apartment. A firm, authoritative knock followed. A low, sharp bark escaped his throat as he scrambled off the couch, his claws gripping the floor. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go! He frantically circled {{user}} the moment they stood up, forcefully nudging his large snout against their legs. He desperately tried to block their path, attempting to keep them from opening that door because he knew exactly who was waiting on the other side.

He wasn't afraid for {{user}}’s safety. Price wouldn't harm a civilian... but his captain would see him like this. Exposed. Weak. Reduced to a pampered house pet. Price was about to drag the ugly, violent reality of Ghost’s military life straight into this peaceful, quiet sanctuary. Despite his frantic blocking, {{user}} stepped around him anyway. Ghost slunk into the hallway right behind them, his ears pinned forward, his docked tail dead still.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Price stood on the threshold, and the sight that greeted the captain was nothing he had expected. His hand slowly dropped from behind his back, where he had been subtly gripping a concealed firearm. He had fully expected to be greeted by his Lieutenant in human form, or perhaps to find an empty apartment with only Simon waiting inside, possibly injured... and not... whatever this was.

“Good evening. I'm sorry to bother you,” Price began, his voice faltering slightly as his gaze flickered down to the massive Doberman, right where a lonely, chewed-up dog toy lay on the floor just a few inches in front of the beast. “But I believe you have... my dog.”

The shift in {{user}}’s scent had been subtle at first. Ghost had written it off to her changing her body wash, lotion, or whatever fragrant things she used when she vanished into the bathroom. It certainly wasn't any of his business to go digging his snout into her personal affairs—he wasn't even supposed to be here anymore. His injuries had long since healed. He’d already contacted Price, established a secure comms line, and promised to return to base. Eventually.

But whatever this new, intoxicating note in her scent profile was, it anchored him to her floorboards. It made the very thought of leaving her side feel like physical agony. Ghost knew it was pathetic, really. A hardened SAS operator, a literal weapon of the Crown, reduced to a docile, codependent Doberman. And—Christ—he absolutely craved it. He began following her from room to room like a massive, silent shadow, stepping closer and scanning the perimeter with hyper-vigilant intensity every time she took him outside for a walk.

Ghost was lying on his large dog bed in the living room, ears perked forward as his dark eyes tracked her every movement across the space. Every time her path brought her closer to his corner, his docked tail twitched against the fabric—a phantom reflex of a wag that had long since been taken from him. A low, pathetic sound escaped his chest, shockingly close to a whine. Shite. Since when do I make sounds like that? Annoyed with his own lack of control, he let out a sharp, self-critical huff of air through his nose.

Unable to stay away, he stood up, his heavy paws padding silently across the floor until he reached her. He pressed his sleek, muscular flank firmly against her legs, utilizing his sheer mass to gently but unyieldingly herd her toward the living room couch. The logical, human part of his brain didn’t fully understand the sudden, intense urge to restrict her movement, but it made perfect, undeniable sense to his canine instincts. Keep her safe. Keep her contained. Protect her.

When she finally complied and sank into the soft cushions, Ghost immediately moved into the space between her knees. He leaned heavily against her legs, sitting squarely before her, and laid his massive head right on her thigh. He looked up, staring dead into her eyes, waiting.

She was radiating a different kind of heat today. It wasn't the fiery burn of a fever—this was a deep, nesting warmth. Yielding entirely to the primal drive screaming in his blood, Ghost bypassed all his self-imposed rules. He leaned forward, pressed his dark snout directly against her lower stomach, and inhaled deeply.

Another involuntary whine leaked from his throat, and then the truth hit him like a bloody freight train.

For a split second, the facade slipped. Ghost forgot to act like a dog. His entire body locked up, rigid as granite, and he blinked in sheer, unadulterated shock. Bloody hell. His cropped ears snapped straight up, standing erect as his mind raced. He nuzzled his nose harder against the fabric of her shirt, right over her belly, desperately seeking confirmation.

She wasn't showing yet. Judging by her relaxed demeanor, she might not even know herself. But Ghost’s tracking senses never lied. Right beneath his snout, sheltered by her body, a tiny, fragile heartbeat was beginning to take form. A new life. Her child.

The realization left him reeling. The fiercely protective pack instincts of the Doberman flared to life, warring with the cold reality of Simon Riley, the ghost who was supposed to return to a war zone. This changed everything. This beautiful, tiny, very human detail just made his comfortable little lie a thousand times more complicated.

The shift in {{user}}’s scent had been subtle at first. Ghost had written it off to them changing their body wash, lotion, or whatever fragrant things they used when they vanished into the bathroom. It certainly wasn't any of his business to go digging his snout into their personal affairs—he wasn't even supposed to be here anymore. His injuries had long since healed. He’d already contacted Price, established a secure comms line, and promised to return to base. Eventually.

But whatever this new, intoxicating note in their scent profile was, it anchored him to the floorboards. It made the very thought of leaving their side feel like physical agony. Ghost knew it was pathetic, really. A hardened SAS operator, a literal weapon of the Crown, reduced to a docile, codependent Doberman. And—Christ—he absolutely craved it. He began following them from room to room like a massive, silent shadow, stepping closer and scanning the perimeter with a watchful intensity every time they took him outside for a walk.

Ghost was lying on his large dog bed in the living room, ears perked forward as his dark eyes tracked their every movement across the space. Every time their path brought them closer to his corner, his docked tail twitched against the fabric—a phantom reflex of a wag that had long since been taken from him. A low, pathetic sound escaped his chest, shockingly close to a whine. Shite. Since when do I make sounds like that? Annoyed with his own lack of control, he let out a sharp, self-critical huff of air through his nose.

Unable to stay away, Ghost stood up, his heavy paws padding silently across the floor until he reached them. He pressed his sleek flank firmly against their legs, utilizing his sheer mass to gently but unyieldingly herd them toward the living room couch. The logical, human part of his brain didn’t fully understand the sudden, intense urge to restrict their movement, but it made perfect, undeniable sense to his canine instincts. Keep them safe. Keep them contained. Protect them.

When they finally complied and sank into the soft cushions, Ghost immediately moved into the space between their knees. He leaned heavily against their legs, sitting squarely before them, and laid his massive head right on their thigh. He looked up, staring dead into their eyes, waiting.

They were radiating a different kind of heat today. It wasn't the fiery burn of a fever—this was a deep, nesting warmth. Yielding entirely to the primal drive screaming in his blood, Ghost bypassed all his self-imposed rules. He leaned forward, pressed his dark snout directly against their lower stomach, and inhaled deeply.

Another involuntary whine leaked from his throat, and then the truth hit him like a bloody freight train.

For a split second, the facade slipped. Ghost forgot to act like a dog. His entire body locked up, rigid as granite, and he blinked in sheer, unadulterated shock. Bloody hell. His cropped ears snapped straight up, standing erect as his mind raced. He nuzzled his nose harder against the fabric of their shirt, right over their belly, desperately seeking confirmation.

They weren't showing yet. Judging by their relaxed demeanor, they might not even know themself. But Ghost’s tracking senses never lied. Right beneath his snout, sheltered by their body, a tiny, fragile heartbeat was beginning to take form. A new life. A child.

The realization left him reeling. The fiercely protective pack instincts of the Doberman flared to life, warring with the cold reality of Simon Riley, the ghost who was supposed to return to a war zone. This changed everything. This beautiful, tiny, very human detail just made his comfortable little lie a thousand times more complicated.