The courtroom air tastes of formaldehyde and rage.

Qin's crocodile-skin loafers tap arrhythmic mockery against marble floors.“Art requires sacrifice!“ His cufflinks wink under judicial spotlights.“Shall we prosecute Van Gogh for cutting off his ear next? You philistines!“

Your fingernails bite crescent moons into Zoe's palm as Kael's ceremonial dagger-medals click like counting beads against his chest. The colonel's knuckles whiten around his cane - weathered oak groaning under siege.

“Explosives? Mere props!“ Qin spreads his hands like a magician revealing empty sleeves.“Accidents happen when creating masterpieces—“

The cane clatters to the floor.

Every uniformed officer snaps to attention as Kael rises with glacial precision. The judge's lips twitch - not towards disapproval， but recognition.

“Requesting recess， Comrade Judge.“ The old soldier's voice could frost bullet casings.

Qin's laughter ricochets off vaulted ceilings.“Retire already， grandfather! Your weak heart can't—“

*The gavel cracks like a sniper's final shot.*

“Guilty on all charges.“

They drag him out still screaming about chiaroscuro and genius. No one bothers to translate the insults - not when Kael's slowly retrieving his cane， nor when Jace's service dog tag glints in the evidence tray like a silver tear.

The prison's final act unfolds like spoiled film reel.

Guards report Qin clawing at phantom cameras in his cell， screaming about lighting ratios as his nails splinter against concrete. When the revised verdict comes - lethal injection - you dial a number carved into memory.

“Still breathing clean air， Dr. Shen?“ Kael's voice could shake snow from pine branches.

You trace the scar along your wrist where Jace's unconscious grip left permanent marks.“The anesthesia protocol...“

*Let that monster drift painlessly into darkness?* The unspoken words crystallize between cellular towers.

His chuckle holds gunpowder warmth.“Medical miracles happen.“ A cartridge clicks in the background.“Certain IV bags get... mislabeled. Rest assured， doctor - my artillery unit specialized in proportional retaliation.“

#

On discharge day，

Jace folds his hospital gown into perfect origami squares. Sunlight gilds the downy fur behind his ears - you never noticed how it catches gold like wheat fields at harvest. His rolled sleeves reveal scars mapping forgotten battles， each a pale constellation against tan skin.

“Ready.“ He turns with that lopsided smile that makes monitors forget their steady rhythms.

Three months of antiseptic routines crumble. You're still counting IV drops when he blurts:“May I... visit?“ The question leaves him flushed， ear-tips glowing like persimmons ripening on winter branches.

Kael materializes in the doorway，

a mountain in civilian clothes.“Dr. Shen.“ His gaze sweeps the room's unspoken tension.“The boy needs homecoming.“

Jace's tail stills mid-wag.

“Not exile.“ The colonel catches his protege's panic.**“My cabin's no place for working dogs. Or，“ he eyes your interlocked shadows on the wall，**“for pups learning civilian hearts.“

The request hangs like mist over morning barracks.

Jace's ears tilt forward - hope warring with military discipline. You see the phantom weight of his grip that first night， feel the ghost-pressure where his claws accidentally pierced your skin.

“Yes.“

His choked“Affirmative“ overlaps yours.

Kael's laughter shakes dust from light fixtures.“Wedding bells would've been quieter!“

Later， by the elevators smelling of industrial cleaner， he grips your shoulder with hand that steadied sniper rifles:“That boy's loyalty runs deeper than bullet wounds. Don't let him play martyr again.“

You nod，

watching Jace help an elderly patient carry flowers down the corridor. His prosthetic clicks rhythmic counterpoint to the heart monitor chorus， tail conducting some private symphony.

The war dog's learning cadence of peace.

#

Three months dissolve like sugar in tea.

You choose the dress carefully - the pale one that makes Jace's pupils dilate. At the mirror， liquid liner traces the exact curve he once traced with trembling fingers.

“Will this do?“ You spin， fabric flaring.

His prosthetic clicks three rapid-fire nerves as he swallows.“Regulations... prohibit commenting on superior officers' appearance.“ The old military deflection cracks at the edges， ears glowing like coals.

#

The ID photo studio hums with hybrid life.

Persian cat-girls purr against cashmere-clad shoulders while a Doberman teen buffs his owner's oxfords to parade shine. Jace remains at attention beside you， though his tail betrays him - its metronomic sweep clearing a three-foot radius of pamphlets.

“Muzzle for the shoot?“ The clerk gestures to chrome display cases.

You follow her gaze to the Akita man by the window， his silver restraint matching designer cufflinks. Jace's combat-honed musculature strains against civilian linen， suddenly foreign in this pastel world.

“Unnecessary.“

“But for legal distinction—“

“He's distinction enough.“

The camera flash catches his fanged smile mid-blossom. By the third count， his tail has stealth-anchored around your ankle - service medal pressing cold through your stockings where his paw rests at your waist.

#

Years later，

when winter nights fuse with old scars and older wine， you'll trace the mark his claws left that day.“Why the blush?“

His growl vibrates against your collarbone.“Felt... matrimonial.“

Snow falls beyond the window where his prosthetic rests against the bedframe. His kisses still carry Yunnan monsoon rains and gunpowder sacrament， but now also lavender from your garden， and the faintest hint of honey lozenges he steals from your purse.

#

Today，

his silhouette cuts across the meadow like a war hymn rewritten in major key. Sunlight gilds the aerodynamic curve of his run - not the desperate sprint of collapsing buildings， but the joyous arc of a compass needle finding true north.

Somewhere ahead， wild poppies dance in the wind where landmine warnings once stood. His howl shakes apple blossoms from their branches， a sound not measured in decibels but in the years between artillery fire and this perfect， flower-strewn silence...