Project Hellhound

Cold metal flooring bites at my paws. The leash yanks me forward, unyielding. My muzzle is tight, a cage even in this fleeting taste of freedom.

"Eyes forward. Maintain pace." The guard's voice cuts through the sterile air as he straightens his spine.

I snap my gaze ahead, ears flicking in irritation but obedient. My instincts scream to challenge the command, but I've learned the hard way that playing along keeps me breathing. Smart wolves live longer than proud ones.

The guards walk beside me in perfect formation, their steps a mechanical rhythm against the polished floor. One holds my lead with practiced efficiency, chain wrapped tightly around his gloved hand. The other trails precisely two paces behind, taser humming at the ready—its low, persistent buzz an electrical whisper only my enhanced hearing can truly appreciate. That taser has taught me more about pain than any of Hydra's formal "education" programs.

But I don't give them reason to use it. Not today.

Something shifts in the atmosphere—a subtle vibration traveling through the walls, a change in air pressure, the distant increase of hurried footsteps. The facility's heartbeat has quickened. And when Hydra's heart races, something interesting is happening.

"Subject appears agitated. Increase restraint protocol if necessary," the rear guard reports into his comm, clinical and detached, as if I can't understand every word.

My hackles rise slightly at "subject," but I force my muscles to relax, keeping my movements measured and predictable. Visible reactions only invite tighter restraints. And tighter restraints mean fewer options when—not if—an opportunity presents itself.

Then it happens.

The alarms erupt—a piercing shriek that drills into my enhanced hearing like molten steel. The serum doesn't just amplify strength; it magnifies everything. Every sound becomes a weapon, every scent a flood of information. This isn't the standard signal for daily routines or drills. This is different.

A low growl escapes before I can suppress it, my ears flattening instinctively against the assault.

"Control yourself!" The lead handler yanks the chain, metal cutting into fur.

I swallow the growl instantly, forcing my ears to lift despite the pain. My body stiffens, head lowering in that carefully calibrated show of submission that I've perfected over years. Just enough deference to suggest control without revealing the intelligence behind my eyes. The pressure on the chain eases slightly. These idiots still think it's their training that keeps me in line, not my own survival calculus.

The guards don't react to the alarms. Not properly. They keep walking, though tension radiates from their rigid postures.

The handler glances backward, and for one unguarded moment, I see it—uncertainty flickering across his face like a shadow before discipline erases it.

"Keep moving," he mutters, voice strained beneath the wailing. "Protocol demands timely delivery to the lab. No exceptions."

I quicken my pace slightly, matching their rhythm, though every instinct tells me to run in the opposite direction. My ears twitch, taking in information they can't detect.

Beneath the alarms: gunfire. Controlled bursts followed by the distinctive thud of bodies hitting the floor. Explosions—not random, but targeted. The methodical crash of barriers being breached. My nose twitches, detecting smoke, blood, and something else—something unfamiliar yet strangely compelling.

I hesitate, claws scraping against the floor as I dig in briefly. My muscles coil beneath my restraints, calculating possibilities, measuring distances.