After 18 years lost, I returned to find my S-rank white wolf only wagging for my adopted sister. Enraged, I adopted a D-rank fighting dog nobody wanted—scarred, starved, and muzzled. They said he was a dangerous beast. Surprise: he let me touch his ears. When a fighting-ring handler came to take me, my "trash" wolf snapped the chains with his bare hands. His eyes turned dark red. Turns out, I didn't adopt a stray. I bought a Hellhound.
