Project Hellhound

The alarm screams without mercy.

I press myself deeper into the corner of my cage, ears flattened against the relentless noise piercing the air. Hours now, maybe more. The sounds of battle grow closer—metal striking metal, the distinctive concussive blasts of unfamiliar weapons, and voices shouting orders that echo through the facility's concrete walls.

A violent explosion rocks the facility. The lights flicker overhead, plunging the lab into momentary darkness before sputtering back to life.

Something's coming.

My ears swivel, tracking heavy footsteps approaching from the east corridor—not the synchronized march of Hydra guards I've memorized, but something different. Uneven. Purposeful. The rhythm triggers something deep in my memory, a pattern my body recognizes before my mind can place it. My muscles coil instinctively, and I rise to my feet without conscious decision.

My muscles tense instinctively, and I find myself rising to my feet. Ready yourself. Hydra taught me that much. The muzzle digs into my snout, restricting my ability to open my jaws fully, but I can still feel the growl building deep in my throat—a primal warning to whatever is heading this way.

The footsteps slow at the lab door. I hear controlled breathing, the subtle shift of weight as someone positions themselves. Not a scientist. Not a regular guard. A fighter. Metal slides against metal—not a key in a lock, but something forcing entry.

The door opens with deliberate stealth. A shadow moves into the room—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the lethal economy I recognize from countless training sessions. The emergency lights catch the gleam of metal where his left arm should be.

And there he stands.

I freeze. Recognition hits like a physical blow. Him. The one with the metal arm. The one who trained us. The one who never spoke except to correct. To command. To punish. There's distance between us—time, perhaps years—but my body responds before conscious thought can intervene. My head lowers automatically, submission ingrained at the cellular level, ears flattening further, teeth still bared behind the muzzle.

The Winter Soldier.

No—not quite. His dark hair falls longer than I remember, framing features that carry new lines. He looks... changed. The gleam of the metal arm catches the fluorescent light, but the red star is gone, scratched violently away. His tactical gear is similar but different—no longer the sleek, black uniform of Hydra, but something with more utility, less regimen. And his eyes—those eyes that once held nothing but cold, empty precision—now contain something else. Something I've never seen in them before.

Humanity.

He completes his sweep of the room with practiced efficiency before his gaze finally settles on my cage in the far corner. When he sees me, his body tenses, weapon lowering slightly. Recognition flickers across his features, followed by something entirely alien to the Winter Soldier I knew.

Shock. And something that might be regret.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, the words barely audible even to my enhanced hearing.

He takes a step toward me, then another, his boots making soft sounds against the concrete floor. His eyes never leave mine, studying me with an intensity that feels familiar yet fundamentally different. Not the clinical assessment of a handler evaluating an asset, but something more... troubled.

"Project Wolves," he says quietly, almost to himself. There's a hitch in his voice, a tremor of recognition mixed with disbelief.

The growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it.