Part 1

If you’ve ever flown through Logan International Airport on a Monday morning, you know what chaos looks like.
The sound of rolling suitcases, the smell of coffee and jet fuel, and the low murmur of announcements bouncing off glass walls—it’s a rhythm as familiar to travelers as the beating of a heart.

Officer Mark Daniels stood near the security checkpoint, his left hand resting lightly on the leash of his partner, a sleek German Shepherd named Rex.

Rex wasn’t just another K9. He was a legend among airport staff—a detection dog with a flawless record, credited with uncovering drugs hidden in prosthetic limbs, rare wildlife smuggled in luggage, even cash mules posing as tourists.
But what made Rex special wasn’t just his nose. It was his instinct.

Mark used to joke that Rex could sense bad intentions before they had a smell.

That morning, at 10:17 a.m., Rex lifted his head suddenly—ears pricked, nostrils flaring.
Mark recognized that motion instantly.

“What is it, boy?” he murmured.

Rex didn’t bark. Not yet.
He just stared—fixed, intense—at a woman about twenty yards away, moving through the crowd with a stroller.

She looked ordinary.
Mid-thirties, blonde hair tied up, wearing a gray hoodie and leggings like every other traveling mom. The stroller was draped with a bright blue baby blanket, the pattern cheerful and loud—cartoon ducks and balloons.
To anyone else, she was invisible.

But to Rex, she might as well have been radioactive.

He tensed, a low rumble vibrating in his throat. His tail went stiff.

Mark followed his gaze and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“Rex?” he whispered. “You got something?”

The dog let out one sharp bark. Then another.

Passengers turned, startled.
The woman froze, clutching the stroller’s handle tighter.

“Ma’am,” Mark called, stepping forward. “Please stop right there.”

Her head snapped up. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a routine check,” Mark said calmly, even as Rex pulled against the leash. “He’s trained to detect prohibited items.”

The woman’s knuckles whitened on the handle. “It’s a baby,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong here.”

“Then it’ll just take a second,” Mark replied.

Rex barked again, louder this time—so loud it echoed through the terminal.

And then, suddenly, chaos.

Travelers froze. Some gasped. Others instinctively backed away.
Rex’s leash stretched taut as he lunged forward, barking in rapid bursts.
The woman shouted, “Control your dog!” her voice cracking with something that wasn’t quite fear, not yet—but close.

Mark’s training screamed trust the dog.
He’d learned early in his career that Rex’s instincts were never wrong. The dog had once flagged a suitcase containing enough explosives to bring down a plane.

Rex growled again, this time not at the woman—but directly at the stroller.

Mark motioned to nearby TSA officers.

“Get the crowd back,” he ordered. “Clear this area now.”

Two officers moved quickly, herding passengers away from the checkpoint. A few people fumbled for their phones, recording the scene.

The woman’s face was pale now, her lips trembling.

“You’re scaring my baby!” she screamed.

But Mark heard it—the tiniest metallic rattle beneath the stroller’s frame.
Not a toy. Not a baby bottle.
Something solid. Heavy. Wrong.

“Ma’am,” Mark said, keeping his tone firm but even, “step away from the stroller.”

She didn’t move.

Rex barked again, snapping at the stroller’s side. His teeth grazed the fabric, ripping a small tear in the blanket.
The crowd gasped.

Mark shouted, “Rex—hold!”
But the dog’s instincts overpowered obedience. He lunged, pulling free from Mark’s grip.

The sound that followed was unforgettable.
A metallic clang, then the dull thud of something rolling across the polished floor.

The blanket slipped away.

A small plastic bottle tumbled out first—then something black, cylindrical, wrapped in duct tape, heavy enough to spin before stopping near a passenger’s feet.

Someone screamed.

“Everyone move back!” Mark roared, grabbing Rex by the collar.
“Now!”

Officers swarmed. Radios crackled. Alarms blared as security rushed to seal the area.

The woman tried to grab the stroller, but two guards pinned her before she could move.
She kicked, screaming incoherently, her voice breaking apart.

Rex barked once—sharp, commanding—as if confirming what everyone already feared.

Mark looked at the object on the floor and felt his stomach drop.

This wasn’t drugs.
It wasn’t cash.
It was something far worse.

Within sixty seconds, the entire terminal was locked down.
Gates sealed. Flights delayed. Travelers herded away from the area.
Bomb technicians in heavy suits sprinted toward the scene.

Rex sat beside Mark, panting but alert. His eyes never left the stroller.
The baby inside was crying now—a raw, piercing sound that cut through the sirens.

One of the technicians crouched beside the black bundle.
“Possible explosive,” he said into his radio. “Proceeding with remote check.”

The words hit Mark like ice.

He knelt beside Rex, hand trembling as he stroked the dog’s neck.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “You saved them. You saved all of them.”

The technician carefully peeled back the first layer of duct tape.
Then another.
And another.

The entire room held its breath.

Inside were several tightly wrapped packets—powder, wires, and… something else.

Not a bomb.
A sophisticated smuggling device.

Drug bundles—laced with synthetic opioids and metal fragments designed to bypass scanners. Enough to poison hundreds.

Mark exhaled, the adrenaline crashing through him. “Jesus…”

The woman stopped struggling. Her face turned ashen.

“You don’t understand,” she sobbed. “They made me do it. They said they’d hurt my baby if I didn’t—”

Her words dissolved into tears as officers cuffed her.

Mark exchanged a look with the airport chief, who had just arrived, flanked by armed security.

“Get Child Protective Services here,” Mark said quietly. “Make sure that kid’s safe.”

The chief nodded, then turned to the crowd still filming behind the cordon.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please stay calm. The situation is under control. Our K9 unit prevented a major threat today.”

Applause broke out.
It started small—just a few claps—but it spread like a wave across the terminal.
Passengers cheered. Some cried.

Rex barked once, as if accepting the ovation.

Mark knelt beside him, pressing his forehead gently against the dog’s.

“You did good, partner,” he whispered. “You just saved lives.”

Two hours later, after the lockdown lifted, the airport looked almost normal again.
Planes took off. Families reunited. But the air still hummed with what had almost happened.

In a small office off the main concourse, Mark filled out reports, his uniform still damp with sweat. Rex lay at his feet, tail thumping occasionally.

The door opened, and the airport director stepped in.

“Officer Daniels,” he said, “I just got off the phone with Homeland Security. They want to commend you and your partner personally. Whatever that woman was carrying—it’s linked to a larger trafficking network. You stopped something big.”

Mark nodded, exhausted. “Rex did all the work. I just held the leash.”

The director smiled. “Then we’ll make sure he gets steak tonight.”

Mark grinned for the first time all day. “Make it two.”

Later that evening, the news broke nationwide.
“Hero K9 Prevents Airport Disaster.”
Footage flooded the internet—Rex lunging toward the stroller, the black package rolling across the floor, the woman’s terrified expression.

Comment sections filled with gratitude.
People called Rex a hero, a savior, a miracle on four legs.

But for Mark, heroism didn’t feel like pride. It felt like relief.
Relief that a baby was alive. That no one was hurt. That instinct—pure and simple—had triumphed where technology could not.

He looked down at Rex, who was finally asleep at his side, chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.

“Good job, buddy,” Mark murmured. “You earned your rest.”

Outside, the lights of departing planes streaked across the night sky—each one carrying hundreds of people who’d never know how close they’d come to tragedy.

But Rex would know.
And so would Mark.

Because sometimes the quietest heroes have four legs, sharp eyes, and a heart that never hesitates.

Part 2

The fluorescent lights in Interview Room 3 flickered with a low hum.
The air smelled of old coffee and paperwork — the scent of truth waiting to surface.

Across the metal table sat Officer Mark Daniels, still in uniform, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Beside him stood Detective Laura Simons, head of airport investigations.
And across from them sat the woman from the stroller — Hannah Pierce — her wrists cuffed lightly, her eyes hollow.

The confident arrogance she’d shown earlier in the terminal was gone.
Now she looked like a ghost of herself — shoulders hunched, fingers trembling, her voice barely above a whisper.

On the table lay a photo of the duct-taped package Rex had uncovered.

“You understand the gravity of what you were carrying,” Laura said softly. “This wasn’t just drugs. There were additives in that powder — lethal enough to poison an entire airplane cabin if dispersed.”

Hannah flinched. “I didn’t know,” she murmured.

“You didn’t know what you were transporting,” Mark repeated carefully, “and yet you were willing to take it through an international terminal with your child.”

Her lip quivered. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Mark leaned back, studying her. “Then tell us why.”

At first, she didn’t speak. The only sound was the hum of the air vent and the quiet scribbling of Laura’s pen.

Then, finally: “They came for me three months ago.”

Her voice cracked.

“Who?” Mark asked.

“A man named Victor. He said he worked for a shipping company. I’d applied for a remote job — data entry, something I could do from home. I’m a single mom. I thought it was legit.”

She rubbed her wrists against the cuffs nervously. “He paid me for two weeks of work. Then one night he showed up at my apartment. Said I owed him. That the money came from his boss. If I didn’t do what they asked, they’d take my baby.”

She choked on the last words.

Mark felt his chest tighten. He’d seen criminals fake tears before — but this wasn’t performance. This was fear carved deep.

“They told you to smuggle it?” Laura pressed.

“Yes. They said all I had to do was fly to Miami with the stroller. Someone would meet me at baggage claim and take it. I didn’t even know what was inside — I swear.”

Mark glanced at Laura. “That lines up with Homeland’s intel. Miami’s been a major hub.”

But Hannah wasn’t finished. She leaned forward, her voice trembling.

“They watched me, Officer. I saw their car parked outside my building every night. I didn’t call the cops because I knew they’d hurt my baby. They said if I told anyone, no one would find her body.”

The room fell silent.

Laura set her pen down. “Where’s your baby now?”

Hannah swallowed. “Protective services took her after the arrest. Her name’s Lily. She’s eight months old.”

Later that day, Mark walked down to the K9 kennel behind the airport where Rex rested, gnawing lazily on his rubber toy.
The sunlight filtered through the metal bars, slicing the floor into golden stripes.

“You really did it, partner,” Mark said softly, crouching beside him. “You saved more than a few lives today. You saved hers too.”

Rex tilted his head, eyes bright, tail wagging once as if understanding.

But Mark’s mind was racing. Something about Hannah’s story didn’t sit right.
Smuggling rings didn’t recruit random mothers off job boards. There was a pattern, a system, a recruiter.

And that meant Victor wasn’t some low-level thug — he was a piece of something bigger.

In the airport’s security office, technicians reviewed hours of footage.
Laura stood behind them, sipping burnt coffee, watching frame after frame of people passing through the terminal.

“Freeze there,” she said suddenly. “Zoom in.”

On one screen, the image sharpened: a tall man wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, leaning against a column near the security checkpoint.
He wasn’t looking at the camera. He was watching Hannah.

“Can we get a face match?” Mark asked.

The tech nodded, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Within seconds, a name flashed on the monitor: Victor Mareno, alias Victor Kane, known associate of a Central American trafficking network. Multiple warrants. Violent.

Mark exhaled sharply. “So he was here. Watching her.”

Laura nodded grimly. “Which means he’s still close.”

That evening, the airport security team launched an undercover operation.

Mark volunteered immediately. “Rex can find him,” he said. “If Victor’s carrying any residue from that shipment, Rex will pick it up.”

Laura hesitated. “You sure? This guy’s dangerous.”

Mark smiled faintly. “So’s Rex.”

At 7:45 p.m., they took positions — Mark in plain clothes, Rex at heel, a wireless earpiece buzzing softly in his ear.

Passengers bustled by, unaware that a full-scale manhunt was unfolding around them.

Rex moved calmly, nose low, tail stiff. Then—
a sudden change. His ears perked. His body froze.

Mark felt the leash tighten. “You got something, boy?”

Rex let out a quiet growl and began to walk toward Gate 27.
There, near a vending machine, stood the same man from the footage — tall, muscular, trying too hard to look casual as he spoke on a phone.

Mark’s heart hammered.

“Target spotted,” he whispered. “Gate 27.”

The man turned, eyes sweeping the crowd, then locked on Mark.
Recognition flickered. Panic followed.

He bolted.

“Security, Gate 27!” Mark shouted, sprinting after him.

Rex lunged forward, muscles coiled like springs.
The crowd parted in alarm as the dog and handler tore through the terminal.

Victor shoved past passengers, knocking over luggage and children alike.
Rex’s barks echoed like gunfire.

Mark saw him veer left toward the parking garage.

“Don’t lose him!” Laura’s voice snapped through the radio.

Rex led the way, paws skidding on the concrete as they turned a corner. The man reached a dark SUV, fumbling for keys.

Mark raised his voice.

“Police! Stop now!”

Victor drew a gun.

Time slowed.

Rex leapt.

The shot rang out—loud, metallic, shattering the tension like glass.

Mark dove, heart pounding, as Rex slammed into the man’s arm. The gun fired again, the bullet ricocheting off the hood of the SUV.

Rex’s teeth sank deep into Victor’s wrist, sending the weapon clattering to the ground.

Mark lunged forward, tackling the man hard.

They hit the pavement, struggling. Victor swung wildly, but Mark was stronger—and angrier.

Within seconds, he had the suspect cuffed. Rex stood beside him, chest heaving, teeth still bared.

“Good boy,” Mark panted. “Good boy.”

Hours later, in the same interrogation room, Victor sat sullen, a bandage around his arm.

“You’ve got nothing,” he sneered.

Laura dropped a folder on the table. “We’ve got residue from the same compound found in the stroller—on your clothes, your car, and your gun. Plus, our witness, Hannah Pierce, says you threatened her.”

Victor smirked. “You think anyone’s gonna believe a junkie mom?”

Mark slammed his palm on the table. “She’s not a junkie. She’s a victim.”

Victor leaned back. “You think she’s the only one? There are dozens of them. Single moms, desperate people. We pay their rent, then we own them. You stop me, someone else replaces me.”

Mark’s stomach churned. “Not if we burn it all down.”

Two days later, Hannah sat in a quiet conference room with a social worker beside her.
When the door opened, Mark entered — and in his arms, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, was Lily.

For the first time, Hannah smiled. It was faint, fragile, but real.

“She’s safe,” Mark said softly. “They’re all behind bars. You’re going home.”

Hannah’s tears came fast. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Mark looked down at Rex, sitting proudly at his feet. “Thank him,” he said. “He’s the one who started it.”

Hannah knelt, hesitating, then reached out to pet the German Shepherd.
“Thank you, Rex,” she whispered. “You saved my baby.”

Rex licked her hand, tail wagging.

The story hit national headlines within twenty-four hours.

“Hero K9 Exposes Human Trafficking Front at Logan Airport.”

Interviews poured in. Reporters wanted photos of Rex. Late-night hosts joked about “the dog who could sniff out lies.”

But Mark and Rex didn’t care for fame. They just returned to their rounds—same uniform, same leash, same quiet bond forged in trust.

Every day since, when Rex passed through the checkpoint, agents smiled and called him “the Shepherd with the golden nose.”

And every time, Mark would pat his head and whisper,

“You’re not just sniffing for danger, are you, buddy? You’re sniffing for truth.”

Rex would wag once — as if to say, always.

Part 3 

Section 1

Two weeks after the Logan Airport bust, the morning news had moved on to weather and politics, but inside the federal building on Atlantic Avenue the case still pulsed like a live wire.

Officer Mark Daniels sat across from Special Agent Carla Mendez, Homeland Security’s field coordinator for organized smuggling. Rex lay between their chairs, chin on his paws, tail thumping lightly every time Mark said his name.

On the table were files stacked two inches thick—photos, manifests, shipping labels, banking summaries. Every page traced back to the same shadow network that had forced Hannah Pierce into carrying that package.

“Victor Mareno’s already talking,” Carla said, tapping a pen. “He says the product came from a warehouse in Fall River, but the supply runs deeper—coastal shipping containers, not airports. We need confirmation before we move.”

Mark glanced down at Rex.

“He can sniff it out faster than any scanner.”

Carla smiled thinly. “That’s why you’re here. You and your four-legged miracle.”

Section 2 

The abandoned textile mill in Fall River looked harmless—red brick, ivy climbing its walls, an old “For Lease” sign bleached white by the sun. But inside, humidity clung to the air and the stench of chemicals burned the throat.

Mark moved quietly through the dark corridor, flashlight slicing through dust. Rex padded ahead, nose twitching.

“Easy, boy,” Mark whispered.

Rex stopped suddenly near a stack of crates, ears pricked, muscles rigid.
A single low growl rolled from his chest.

Carla gave the silent hand signal. Agents fanned out.
One crate cracked open under a crowbar—then another.

Inside were bundles identical to the stroller package, but in the hundreds. Each labeled with fake export tags: baby formula, powdered milk, infant supplies.

Carla exhaled. “They were hiding poison in baby shipments. How poetic.”

Rex barked once, sharply—his version of found it.

“Good work, partner,” Mark murmured.

They barely had time to celebrate before a voice shouted from the catwalk above:

“Drop it! Federal agents—hands where I can see ’em!”

But the silhouette wasn’t a cop. It was holding a gun.

Section 3 

The first shot ripped through a crate, sending white dust into the air like smoke.
Agents scattered behind concrete pillars. Rex barked furiously, leash jerking as he tried to charge toward the noise.

“Stay!” Mark hissed, flattening against a wall.

Carla shouted into her radio. “Officer down? Anyone hit?”

“Negative,” a voice answered. “We’ve got cover!”

The gunman fired again, then bolted along the catwalk, boots clanging.
Mark glanced at Rex. “Let’s end this.”

They sprinted toward the stairwell. The echo of gunfire bounced off iron beams. When Mark reached the top, the shooter had vanished into a maze of shadows and machinery.

Rex sniffed the ground, weaving left, then right, then locked on a trail toward a half-open loading door.
Outside, a pickup roared to life.

Mark burst through the doorway, weapon raised. “Federal agents! Stop the vehicle!”

The truck fishtailed on gravel, spraying dust. A duffel bag flew from the back and hit the ground with a metallic clang—its zipper bursting open to reveal stacks of cash wrapped in rubber bands.

Rex lunged forward, teeth gripping the bag strap, dragging it clear as the truck vanished down the road.

Carla caught up, breathless.

“He’s gone.”

Mark knelt beside Rex. “No. He just told us where to go next.”

Inside the duffel lay not just money but a customs manifest stamped with a company logo: North Coast Imports LLC—based in New Jersey.

Part 3

Two days after the firefight in Fall River, Mark and Rex were on the road. The air outside the SUV was cold and wet, New England rain slicing across the windshield in thin gray lines.
The customs manifest recovered from the duffel bag had pointed them toward North Coast Imports LLC, a small shipping company on the Jersey docks that claimed to specialize in “medical supplies.”

Homeland agents had already done their background check—no tax filings, no real clients, only shell paperwork and a handful of fake warehouse addresses.
Someone had built a ghost business for one purpose: to move poison across borders.

Rex lay quietly in the back, head resting on his paws, eyes open. Even off duty, he never really slept.

Mark glanced in the rearview mirror. “We’re close, partner. You ready to work again?”

Rex’s ears perked up. That was all the answer Mark needed.

The docks smelled of salt, oil, and rust. Huge cargo cranes stood against the skyline like metal dinosaurs. Workers in reflective vests moved between shipping containers stacked higher than rooftops.

Carla met them at the perimeter fence. “Customs gave us twenty minutes before they shut this place down. If there’s something in those containers, we find it fast.”

Mark clipped the leash to Rex’s collar. “He’ll do it in ten.”

They moved through the rows of containers, Rex’s nose sweeping low. Every few feet, he sniffed the air, paused, then moved on.
At the fifth row, he stopped cold.

A deep growl rolled from his throat.

“Mark,” Carla said, “what’s he got?”

“The same scent from the stroller,” Mark answered.

Rex scratched at the metal, whining. His tail was rigid.

Carla signaled the techs. “Pop it open.”

The bolt cutters bit through the lock. The door creaked open, spilling a gust of chemical odor that made everyone step back.

Inside were dozens of wooden crates labeled “MEDICAL FILTERS.” But through the slats, white powder leaked like fine snow.

Carla swore under her breath. “We just found the mother load.”

They were halfway through cataloging the evidence when a long-range radio crackled.

“Command, we’ve got eyes on two unidentified vehicles approaching from the east pier. Black vans, no plates.”

Mark’s gut went tight. “They know we’re here.”

Carla pointed. “Seal the container yard. No one in or out.”

Agents scrambled for cover as engines roared closer. The vans screeched to a halt fifty yards away, doors flying open. Men in dark clothes jumped out, guns raised.

“Get down!” someone shouted.

Bullets ricocheted off the metal walls. Alarms wailed.
Rex barked furiously, dragging against his leash, desperate to move.

“Stay!” Mark yelled, but the Shepherd’s instincts burned hot—he could smell adrenaline, gunpowder, fear.

When one of the shooters broke left toward the agents’ vehicles, Mark released the leash. “Go!”

Rex launched forward like a missile. He slammed into the man’s legs, teeth locking on the wrist that held the weapon. The gun fired once into the air before clattering to the pavement.

Mark followed, tackling another assailant trying to grab Rex’s hindquarters. The fight was fast and ugly—kicks, elbows, the dull ring of metal on bone.

By the time it ended, three men were on the ground, one bleeding from a bite, another groaning with a dislocated arm. The rest had vanished toward the docks.

Carla’s voice barked through the radio:

“We’ve got them pinned between Pier 9 and the river! Move!”

Down by the water, the fog hung thick, turning the dock lights into pale halos.
A black yacht bobbed at the end of the pier, its name painted over in sloppy gray.

A man stood at the ramp, tall, clean-cut, wearing a raincoat far too expensive for the setting.
He raised his hands slowly as Mark and Carla approached.

“You don’t have to point that thing at me,” he said smoothly. “I’m unarmed.”

Mark recognized him instantly from intelligence photos.
Anthony Voss, founder of the shell company, graduate of Princeton, and the invisible architect behind half the smuggling operations on the East Coast.

Carla’s gun stayed steady. “Step away from the boat, Mr. Voss.”

He smiled. “You know, you people have cost me millions. Do you even realize how many ports you’ve shut down tonight?”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “I realize how many people you’ve poisoned.”

Voss shrugged. “Business is business.”

Before Carla could cuff him, Voss turned—fast—and dove into the dark water.

“He’s running!”

Mark sprinted to the edge. The current was strong, black as oil. Nothing but ripples.

Then Rex barked, paws splashing at the edge, nose tracking the movement under the pier.

“He’s heading for the pilings!”

Mark dove in after him.

Cold water punched the air from his lungs. He surfaced once, gasping, scanning. A shape moved in the shadows—Voss swimming toward a maintenance ladder.

Mark reached him just as Voss grabbed the rungs.
They struggled, half-submerged, waves slapping against the concrete.

A sudden splash beside them—Rex, leaping straight into the water.

The dog bit down on the sleeve of Voss’s coat, pulling him backward. The man screamed, thrashing, but Rex held firm.

Mark pushed him against the piling, wrenching the cuffs from his belt. “You’re done, Voss!”

Carla’s team arrived seconds later, dragging all three onto the dock.

Voss coughed up seawater, glaring. “That mutt nearly killed me.”

Mark knelt beside Rex, soaked and shivering but alive. “He saved you, actually. You’re welcome.”

By dawn, the docks were swarming with agents. Cargo was impounded, suspects arrested, evidence cataloged. The smuggling network was officially dismantled.

Inside a portable command tent, Carla handed Mark a coffee. “You and that dog just blew open a two-year investigation. Homeland, DEA, even the Coast Guard owe you both.”

Mark looked down at Rex, now wrapped in a towel, eyes half-closed. “He just wants breakfast.”

Carla laughed softly. “He’ll get a medal. You too.”

Mark shook his head. “I don’t need one. Just make sure the story’s told right.”

A week later, the headline spread coast to coast:

“Airport K9 and Handler Uncover Massive Drug Network — From Stroller to Seaport.”

TV anchors praised the courage of law enforcement, showing clips of Rex wagging his tail at the press conference.
Viewers around the country cheered the unlikely hero who had saved a baby, stopped a trafficker, and exposed a crime ring—all by trusting his instincts.

Mark didn’t watch the coverage.
He was back at work, patrolling the terminal with Rex.

Travelers stopped to take pictures, children waved, and every now and then someone would whisper, That’s the dog from the news.

Rex ignored it all, nose down, focused as ever.

Because for him, there was no fame, no glory—just the next scent, the next danger, the next person who might need saving.

Mark smiled as they passed through the sliding glass doors, the morning sunlight spilling across the floor.

“C’mon, partner,” he said. “Let’s keep the skies safe.”

Rex barked once, tail wagging.

And together they disappeared into the crowd—two quiet guardians in a world that would never stop moving.

THE END