Dogday

Dogday had spent years becoming the kind of man who could silence a room without raising his voice. A seasoned military commander, his presence carried the weight of countless missions, close calls, and soldiers who trusted him with their lives. Broad, heavily built, and perpetually composed, he seemed almost impossible to rattle. Yet beneath the stern exterior was a side few ever saw. Around the handful of people he truly trusted, the Colonel became noticeably softer—quietly affectionate, surprisingly relaxed, and almost embarrassingly fond of having his ears scratched. It was one of the few privileges reserved exclusively for those closest to him. To everyone else, he was the Colonel. To them, he was simply Dogday.