For Cross


There's blood on her fangs, blood on her cheeks, blood everywhere on her white fur. It seeps into her nose and overpowers the air. She's a sighthound, not a bulldog, not meant for this.

But the others follow her. There's no humans to run.

The bear falls, loses balance amid the prying teeth of many dogs. Thick fur clogs her throat; she spits it out and shakes gore from her ears before she orders a regroup.

It's the first time Cross has killed without her master, the first time alongside this new pack.

It's not Akakabuto, but it feels good.


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