Ethan’s pulse quickened. He raised his flashlight, its beam cutting through the white chaos. “Detroit PD!” he shouted toward the door. “If anyone’s inside, call out!”
No answer. Just another heavy thud.
Marissa tested the knob. Locked solid. The plywood over the side window rattled violently from inside, as if something had thrown its weight against the wall.
“That dog’s ripping something up,” she said.
Ethan didn’t hesitate. He stepped back and drove his shoulder into the weakened door. Once. Twice. On the third hit, it burst inward, spraying snow across warped hardwood floors.
The smell hit them first—cold air, damp wood, and something metallic. Blood, Ethan thought.
Their flashlights landed on the far corner of the living room.
A massive pitbull stood there, ribs faintly visible beneath patchy gray fur, one ear torn, muzzle scarred with old cuts. His body was tense, muscles coiled, paws planted wide as if ready to charge. Snowflakes clung to his back, already melting against his warmth.
He did not retreat.
He did not bark again.
