The lights above the operating table were too bright, too white, turning everything into sharp edges and shadows. Lawson stood frozen at Titan’s side, one gloved hand pressed hard against the German Shepherd’s flank, feeling warmth where it shouldn’t be, feeling life slipping through his fingers.

The sirens were gone now. The chaos of the drive was over. What remained was this room, this smell of antiseptic and metal, and the unbearable weight of his tactical vest still strapped to his chest because he hadn’t even thought to take it off.

Titan lay on the table, his powerful body unnaturally still.

Hours earlier, he had been unstoppable.

Titan had always moved like certainty itself—ears alert, muscles coiled, eyes locked forward. A dog bred for danger, trained for it, willing to run toward what others fled. Lawson had trusted him with his life more times than he could count. Tonight was supposed to be no different.

Until the knife.

It came fast, hidden in panic and darkness, meant for Lawson but finding Titan instead. The sound Titan made then was something Lawson would never forget—not a bark, not a growl, but a short, shocked whimper that didn’t belong to a dog so strong.

Lawson had dropped beside him instantly, hands slick with blood, pressing hard, shouting for medics even as his own vision narrowed. Titan’s eyes had found his, wide but still focused, still working.

“I’ve got you,” Lawson had said then, voice raw. “Stay with me.”

Now, under the surgery lights, those words felt smaller. Fragile.

Vets moved quickly around them, voices calm, efficient, practiced. Instruments clinked. Orders were given. Someone gently tried to guide Lawson back.

“Sir, we need space.”

He didn’t move.

His hand stayed buried in Titan’s fur, fingers trembling now that adrenaline had nowhere to go. Titan’s breathing was shallow, uneven. Each rise of his chest felt like a question mark.

Lawson leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was just for Titan.
“Hey… hey, buddy.”
Titan’s ear twitched. Barely. But it was enough.

“You don’t quit on me,” Lawson whispered, the words breaking as they left him. “Not today. You hear me? Not today.”

The room faded at the edges. Lawson was back in all the other moments—the quiet ones no one ever filmed or celebrated. Early mornings when Titan sat patiently while Lawson tied his boots. Long nights when Titan rested his head on Lawson’s knee during paperwork. The way Titan always checked back, just once, before entering a room first.

Trust, absolute and unspoken.

Titan whimpered softly as the vets worked, a sound that cut deeper than any scream. Lawson felt it in his chest, like pressure, like something collapsing inward.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

Hours passed without shape or meaning. Time became measured only by Titan’s breathing and the steady beep of machines. Lawson didn’t sit. Didn’t pace. He stood rooted, as if moving even an inch might somehow pull Titan farther away.

His vest grew heavier with every minute, straps digging into his shoulders, the weight mirroring the fear pressing down on him. He welcomed the discomfort. It felt like penance.

At one point, the room fell quieter. The urgency shifted into something tense and delicate. A vet glanced up at Lawson, eyes unreadable.

Lawson swallowed hard.
“Please,” he said, barely louder than breath.

Titan’s chest rose. Fell.

Then—slowly, faintly—his tail thumped once against the table.

Lawson sucked in a sharp breath, the sound halfway to a sob. His knees nearly gave out. He dropped his forehead closer to Titan’s neck, pressing his face into the coarse fur, not caring who saw.

“That’s it,” he whispered urgently. “That’s my boy. That’s you.”

Titan’s breathing deepened, still labored but steadier now. Lawson felt the rhythm of it through his hand, felt his own chest unconsciously matching it, breath for breath, like they had done a hundred times before on cold nights and long watches.

The metal cold of the table seeped into Lawson’s arms, but he didn’t pull away. Tears slid freely now, darkening Titan’s fur. Lawson didn’t bother to wipe them.

“I’m here,” he kept saying, over and over, as if the words themselves were a lifeline. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

The vets continued their work, quieter now, movements careful. One of them nodded slightly, not smiling, not promising—but acknowledging something important had shifted.

Titan was still fighting.

Lawson stayed close, hand steady, heart aching with a love he had never learned how to explain to anyone else. Titan wasn’t just a partner. He wasn’t just a K-9.

He was the one who ran first.
The one who guarded last.
The one who never questioned orders or fear or pain—only trust.

When Titan finally settled, exhaustion overtaking him, Lawson remained where he was. He rested his palm flat against Titan’s side, feeling the warmth, the life still there.

Outside, the world kept moving. Radios crackled somewhere distant. Doors opened and closed. None of it mattered.

In this room, under harsh lights and the scent of antiseptic, a man and his dog held on to each other in the quiet aftermath of violence.

Lawson leaned close one last time, his voice barely a whisper.
“You did good,” he said. “You did everything right.”

Titan didn’t open his eyes. But his tail tapped once more, faint and slow.

And for the first time since the knife flashed, Lawson allowed himself to believe they might both walk out of this—together.