Project Hellhound

My muscles tense involuntarily as the doors slide shut behind us with a soft mechanical hiss. The medical bay is awash in artificial light that seems to expose everything—too reminiscent of Hydra's laboratories for comfort.

Dr. Cho stands near an examination table, arranging instruments on a small tray. The metallic clink of surgical tools makes my ears flatten against my skull instinctively. She looks up as we enter, her expression professional but kind. Behind her, Bruce paces near a transparent screen displaying medical data, tapping occasionally on the surface as he frowns at the readings. In the far corner of the room, Sam leans against the wall while Natasha perches on a stool, both maintaining a careful distance.

Not captors, not handlers, but not quite allies either, I think, cataloging each person according to the potential threat they pose. Old habits die hard.

"Good morning," Dr. Cho says, nodding to Bucky before turning her attention to me. "Let's see how our patient is doing today."

I flatten my ears further, unwilling to give any sign of weakness but also reluctant to appear aggressive. My gaze darts from her to the instruments, measuring distances, calculating how quickly I could destroy them if necessary.

"Look at that," Tony observes, stepping closer. "Those eyes are analyzing every exit point and weapon in the room. Remind you of anyone, Romanoff?"

Natasha arches an eyebrow. "Survival instinct. Hard to unlearn."

"Takes one to know one," Sam murmurs under his breath, earning a sharp glance from Natasha.

I shift my position, moving behind Bucky who creates a buffer zone between me and the others. I press slightly against his leg—a calculated move that communicates trust while maintaining alertness.

"She ate well this morning," Bucky reports, responding to my proximity with a subtle shift that covers my flank. "Movement seems less painful."

"Any signs of discomfort during the night?" Dr. Cho asks as she circles around to wash her hands at a nearby sink. The running water makes my ears twitch reflexively.

"Some restlessness," Bucky replies, "but nothing concerning. She settled after a while."

He noticed that? I thought I'd hidden my discomfort well, but apparently not well enough to escape his trained eye. The realization that he was observing me so closely even as I observed him is both unsettling and strangely comforting.

Dr. Cho dries her hands methodically, each movement precise and controlled. "That's to be expected with trauma. Animals process stress differently, but the patterns remain similar." She gestures toward the examination table. "Let's take a look at those stitches then." She pats the surface twice.

I hesitate, my gaze lingering on the instruments nearby. My claws extend involuntarily, scoring lines in the tile as I fight the urge to bolt. My breathing quickens slightly as phantom sensations of restraints tighten around my limbs.

Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other, drawing my attention momentarily. "Is everything okay?" he asks, concern etching his features.

"Give her a minute," Sam says quietly.

"It's just a check-up," Bucky says softly, for my ears only. "No tests."

I glance at him, searching for deception, but his eyes are clear and steady. I find what I need there—honesty, concern, stability.

I approach the table and leap up deliberately, controlling my wince as the movement pulls at my stitches. The surface is padded, but I remain standing, refusing to lie down and expose my vulnerable underside. My claws dig deeper into the padding, the slight ripping sound oddly satisfying. I stand rigid, muscles coiled like springs.