When the dog entered, Ethan’s legs buckled and he slowly sank to his knees. Not from fear—he simply lacked the strength to stay upright.
The guards stood motionless along the wall. One of them almost said something, then held back. Even the strictest officer, who normally reacted to the slightest disturbance, stayed silent, only watching. The room felt cold and lifeless. Gray floors, dim lights, observation glass that separated people from emotion. It was a place meant to strip away humanity.
But not this time.
The dog stepped inside.
An aging Belgian Malinois, his muzzle lined with gray, his movements slower but his eyes still alive. He paused for a moment, as if sensing the weight of it all, then walked straight toward Ethan.
He didn’t bark. He didn’t rush.
He simply approached, gently placed a paw on Ethan’s knee, and rested his head against his chest.
