I stopped two feet away. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t use the “good boy” voice. I knelt on the cold tile, right in the strike zone. Titan lunged—jaws snapping inches from my face. The nurses screamed. I didn’t flinch.

I just leaned forward and whispered six syllables. A phrase that wasn’t in any training manual. A phrase my brother had only ever used when he thought no one was listening.

Titan froze mid-growl. His ears swiveled forward. The tension left his body instantly, and he let out a sound that broke every heart in the room. He limped forward and rested his heavy head on my shoulder.

Dr. Evans dropped the dart gun. “How… how did you do that?” I buried my hands in Titan’s fur, tears finally spilling over. “Because that code doesn’t just mean ‘stand down,’” I whispered. “It means…”I’m still here.”

Titan lets out a trembling whine, his body sagging against me like he’s finally allowed to collapse. His muscles twitch beneath my palms, straining to stay alert, but he’s done. The adrenaline, the terror, the grief—it’s all carved into him like it’s been stitched into his fur. And now, with six simple words, the storm breaks.

Dr. Evans crouches nearby, eyes wide. “Get me ketamine and gauze. Now.”

The team rushes in, a flurry of gloves and sterile packs. But Titan doesn’t growl. He doesn’t bare his teeth. He just watches me, amber eyes filled with something I never expected—hope.

“I don’t understand,” Evans mutters, peeling back bloodied fur. “That phrase… what does it mean?”

“It was something my brother said once,” I say softly, still kneeling beside Titan. “We were kids, hiding under a blanket fort during a thunderstorm. I was crying, and he pulled me close and whispered, ‘I’m still here.’ He kept saying it, like a mantra. He used it again when Titan came into his life. It was their bond.”

The vet looks stunned, but he doesn’t argue. The silence between us is thick, like even the walls are listening.

Titan doesn’t flinch as they inject the sedative. His gaze stays locked on mine as the meds begin to pull him under. His breathing slows, his eyes flutter.

“I’m still here,” I whisper again, brushing my fingers along his scarred snout.

The moment he’s out, Evans and the techs move fast. I step back, numb and shaky, as they clean the wound, stitch muscle, flush infection. They speak in clipped commands, focused but gentle now, like the air around Titan has changed.

Because it has.

And then, someone bursts through the door.

Sergeant Hale.

He’s pale, eyes wild, a satellite phone clutched in his hand. “We got something,” he says, panting. “A call. Scrambled. Deep channel. Couldn’t trace it. Just static and a voice—sounded like Ramirez.”

My heart seizes.

“That’s impossible,” Evans says.

But Hale looks at me. “He said your name, Maggie. Twice. And he repeated one thing before the signal cut.”

My voice is a rasp. “What?”

“Same phrase. ‘I’m still here.’”

Time fractures around me. That can’t be coincidence. My knees almost give, but I steady myself. Titan stirs slightly on the table, as if he hears us even in sedation.

“Where was the signal coming from?” I ask.

“Somewhere near the Pakistan border. Mountains. Deep black zone. We wrote him off days ago—no chatter, no sat pings, nothing. But this…” Hale looks toward Titan. “He brought something back. And maybe he’s not the only one.”

Everything spins into motion after that.

They keep Titan overnight. I don’t sleep. I sit in the kennel with him, curled beside his crate, humming softly the way my brother used to. And when he finally wakes, groggy but alive, he licks my hand once, deliberately. Not instinct—recognition.

By morning, command calls me in.

“You’re not cleared for field duty,” the major says, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t care,” I say. “He’s alive. Titan knows something. And I’m the only one he’ll follow.”

“You’re not trained for retrieval.”

I lean forward. “He’s my brother. And we have no time.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then the major sighs.

“We’re assembling a shadow team. Off-book. No guarantees.”

“Good,” I say. “Because I’m going.”

The next forty-eight hours are madness.

I’m briefed, outfitted, drilled. Titan gets antibiotics, field dressings, light armor. The handler slot in the helo is open. No one else dares take it. They leave it for me.

The moment we lift off, Titan’s entire posture changes. Alert. Ears up. It’s like he knows we’re going after him. After his man.

The insertion zone is pitch-black, wind slicing through the ravine like knives. We touch down on a ridge above an abandoned outpost. The signal came from here. Or near here. No patrols. No drones. Too dangerous.

Which makes it perfect for a ghost.

We move fast. Titan leads, nose to the ground, every step deliberate. The others—Riker, Vale, Bishop—don’t question me. They trust the dog more than the chain of command.

Thirty minutes in, Titan stops.

He crouches low, hackles raised. I see it then. Barely visible against the jagged rocks—an old radio beacon, burned out. Titan sniffs it, circles, then bolts down a path to the right, dragging me behind him.

We find the cave fifteen minutes later.

And the blood.

Fresh.

Riker lifts a fist. We fan out. Silence. No movement.

Then I see it—scratches on the rock. Fingernails. Someone was here. Titan whines once, claws at a stone. It gives. A false wall, barely held together.

Inside—barely breathing—is my brother.

I don’t remember screaming. I just remember falling to my knees and grabbing his face, whispering it again and again.

“I’m still here. I’m still here.”

His eyes crack open. “Told… you it’d work,” he rasps.

Titan pushes past me and nudges into him, whining so high-pitched it sounds like sobbing. My brother’s cracked lips twist into something like a smile.

We evac him out. Flare extraction. Hot zone. We almost don’t make it, but Titan never leaves his side. Not for a second.

Back on base, everything blurs. My brother survives. Two surgeries. Dozens of stitches. He coded once, but came back.

And every time he drifted, I stayed by his bed. Whispering it.

I’m still here.

Weeks pass. Titan heals faster than the doctors predicted. He stays glued to my brother’s side, but he lets others near now. He’s changed. Calmer. Watching. Waiting. Trusting, finally.

Command offers me a promotion. A handler slot. They even clear me for field work.

I say no.

I’ve had enough war. Enough loss.

But I ask for one thing: Titan.

They grant it.

My brother agrees. He says it’s only right.

Now we walk together, every morning, down by the waterline near the barracks. Titan runs ahead, ears flopping, tongue out, chasing birds like he’s never seen blood.

Sometimes, my brother joins us.

And sometimes, at night, when the wind howls like gunfire through the base fencing, Titan curls beside my bed and presses close until I sleep.

Because that phrase—those six little words—aren’t just a code anymore.

They’re a promise.

For the broken.

For the lost.

For anyone who needs to hear it.

I’m still here.