PART 2
The gym doors opened with a heavy metallic groan.
At first, nobody moved.
Nobody even breathed.
A single German Shepherd stepped inside first.
Then another.
Then a Belgian Malinois.
Then five more.
Then ten.
Then the entire entrance filled with dogs moving in absolute silence except for the controlled rhythm of their paws against the floor.
They did not bark.
They did not pull.
They did not scatter.
They entered like soldiers.
Each dog wore a tactical harness marked with unit numbers. Some had muzzles clipped to their vests. Some carried training pouches. A few had small camera rigs mounted along their backs. Behind them came handlers in dark training uniforms, faces focused, posture disciplined.
But the dogs were not looking at the handlers.
They were looking at my mother.
Rachel Reed stood near the center of the basketball court, hands relaxed at her sides, her expression unreadable.
Fifty pairs of eyes locked on her.
Titan stood beside me, body tense but perfectly still.
The students who had laughed at me minutes earlier were silent now. Some leaned back on the bleachers as though distance might protect them from what they were witnessing. Teachers exchanged confused looks. Phones rose slowly into the air, recording.
Lieutenant Brandon Carter’s smile faded inch by inch.
Chief Ramirez, standing near the Navy booth, whispered something under his breath.
I caught only two words.
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