Willis crouched slightly, reaching for the duffel bag without asking. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Victor’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Orion’s fur. “I wouldn’t do that.”
Willis paused for a fraction of a second, then smirked. “Or what?”
He pulled the zipper open and tipped the bag.
The contents spilled out in a quiet cascade—clothes, neatly folded despite their wear; a small container of dog food; a canteen; and, sliding last, a rectangular object wrapped in cloth. It hit the ground with a dull thud, the fabric loosening just enough to reveal the edge of a frame.
Willis picked it up, curiosity replacing his earlier indifference. He unwrapped it halfway, then stopped.
“What’s this?” he muttered.
Collins stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. The frame held a photograph, slightly faded but still clear enough to make out the details—a younger man in uniform, standing beside a dog that looked unmistakably like Orion, though broader, stronger, with the unmistakable posture of something trained for more than companionship. Behind them, blurred but recognizable to anyone who had seen enough images, was a setting that did not belong to civilian life.
Collins’s expression shifted, but only briefly. Then it hardened again, skepticism overriding curiosity. “Could be anyone,” he said. “People fake this stuff all the time.”
Victor watched them, his gaze steady. “Put it back.”
