The golden glow of dusk filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting a soft, warm light across the room. Reuben sat in the corner of the worn-out sofa, his handcuffs gleaming brightly on his slender wrists. He hung his head, his voice dry and resigned.
“Actually, I’ve only known that dog for four days.”
The air was filled with the scent of Dog Thirteen—a mix of sunlight, earth, and the warm breath of a puppy, familiar and soothing. Bruce stood by the window, staring at the gaunt man.
“Four days ago,” Reuben continued, “the Blood Gang suddenly notified us that they no longer needed more people. I wasn't willing to give up, so I sneaked to the contact point, hoping for a chance. But everyone had already left. Just as I turned to leave, that little dog... Thirteen, appeared before me.
