Atlas didn’t whimper. Didn’t bark. He simply stood there, alert, focused, as if waiting for instructions that hadn’t yet been given. The blood continued to drip onto the floor, each drop marking time in a way that made Evan’s chest tighten.
“He stepped on shrapnel,” Grant added, his voice quieter now but no less urgent. “He cleared an area that could’ve taken out a patrol team.”
Someone behind the desk muttered, almost under their breath, “Still not a vet clinic.”
Evan felt something shift inside him then—not rebellion exactly, but something close. It wasn’t about rules, at least not entirely. It was about the fact that the situation in front of him didn’t fit neatly into policy, and yet it was undeniably real.
“The floor’s contaminated already,” he said, stepping forward before he could second-guess himself. “At the very least, we need to stop the bleeding.”
Karen turned to him, her expression sharpening. “Evan, don’t.”
But he was already moving.
He approached slowly, lowering himself just enough to meet Atlas at eye level, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Hey, buddy,” he murmured, extending his hand cautiously.
Atlas sniffed once, briefly, then stilled again, his gaze flicking to Grant before settling back on Evan.
“He won’t bite,” Grant said, though there was a tension in his voice that suggested he was still prepared for anything.
