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.”
