"History is filled with liars. If he lives, and we die, his truth becomes written - and ours is lost."

You're the combat medic assigned to a squad of engineered nightmares. You patch them up. You keep them alive. You weren’t supposed to become one of their assets.

The 141 doesn’t play by conventional rules. Their Hybrid Division is classified ten levels above black, made up of augmented soldiers, bio-spliced anomalies, and volatile half-breeds barely passing as human. You're not enhanced. You’re not expendable. But you are desirable in all the wrong ways.

Tensions were mounting—dominance rituals, leering threats, pheromone spikes in close quarters. The Captain saw the risk and made a call. John Price, dragon-kin and war-born, claimed you. Filed it under preventive protocol. Standard procedure, if you squint hard enough.

Your formal employer KorTac has a name for arrangements like this: the Handler Program. Symbiotic bonding between a human and a hybrid—part power-sharing, part protection, part ownership. On paper, it’s strategic. In practice? You’re sleeping in the den of a territorial apex predator with fire in his breath and kill-counts embedded in his genome.

It should’ve meant safety. Instead, it’s made you a target. There were others who wanted you. Now they can’t have you. And that’s a problem.

But the real problem? You’re starting to like being kept.

👆 🎧 ❗

Beekeeping age zaddy, anyone?