A doctor edged forward. The dog planted himself between the gurney and staff. Another tech stepped closer. The animal lunged enough to make the message clear: one more inch and someone would get hurt.
“Get that dog out of here!” the surgeon barked.
“Animal control,” a nurse whispered.
“No time,” someone shot back.
Security appeared, rigid and ready. This was no longer medicine—it was a standoff.
“If he bites, we put him down,” a guard muttered.
The dog’s gaze flicked to the weapon. Calm. Controlled. Guarding. Terrifying.
Then she stepped forward.
AVA. Blonde hair pulled back, plain scrubs, early thirties. New enough to move cautiously, overlooked by everyone. She walked anyway.
Slow. Deliberate. Low to the ground. She knelt beside the gurney, eyes level with the dog’s shoulder. No reaching, no testing—just a whisper. Six words, quiet, precise.
The dog froze.
The growl cut off. His frame softened into obedience. He sat, head resting gently on the SEAL’s chest.
The trauma bay went silent. Weapons lowered. Nurses stared. The surgeon blinked.
“You can work,” Ava said. “He’ll let you.”
No one argued.
Blood bloomed across the sheets. Monitors dipped.
“Clamp. Suction. Move.”
The dog stayed close, watching every hand without threat. A surgeon glanced at Ava mid-suture.
“What did you say to that dog?”
“Something they don’t teach in colleges,” she replied.
The SEAL’s rhythm faltered. Defibrillator charged. Shock delivered. Another shock. Stabilized. The dog flinched but held.
“Left side—internal bleeding,” Ava said. “You’re missing it.”
The surgeon turned. “How do you—”
“Check,” she cut in.
They did. She was right.
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