The whispers began as faint murmurs in backroom briefings and shadowy intelligence reports. Stories of "over-roided super-soldiers" with inhuman speed and strength filtered out from the snowy battlefields of Eastern Europe, carried by survivors too broken to lie. They spoke of creatures that moved like men but struck with the force of monsters, their eyes glowing faintly in the night. The accounts came not just from soldiers but from terrified civilians who spoke of fleeting shadows moving with impossible grace, leaving behind devastation that defied explanation.

  It wasn’t long before these rumors reached the ears of powerful nations, and with them came a growing sense of dread—not merely at the strength of these soldiers, but at what they represented: the beginning of a new kind of warfare.

  Washington, D.C.

  In the heart of the Pentagon, General Marcus Bryant leaned over a conference table littered with satellite images and declassified reports. His steely eyes narrowed as he studied the grainy photographs of a smoldering compound, the bodies of enemy combatants strewn across the snow like discarded dolls. The air in the room was heavy, laced with the sharp scent of stale coffee and tension.

  "This isn’t just some propaganda piece," he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the tense silence. "Whatever the Russians have cooked up, it’s real. And it’s dangerous."

  "With all due respect, General," said Director Claire Novak of the CIA, her voice calm but edged with skepticism, "these accounts come from terrified prisoners of war. How much of it can we trust?"

  Bryant’s fist came down hard on the table, rattling the scattered files. "Enough. The pattern is too consistent to ignore. Enhanced strength, inhuman reflexes, a pack of soldiers tearing through a fortified position without backup or heavy artillery? They’re testing something—and it’s working."

  The room fell silent except for the soft hum of a projector displaying infrared footage of an obliterated outpost. Novak sighed, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against her chair. "If this is true, we need eyes on the ground. Covert operatives, not just drones."

  "Already working on it," Bryant replied. His voice was steel, but the weight of his words pressed into every corner of the room. "But if they’re this far ahead, we’ve got catching up to do. And fast."

  Beijing, China

  In a subterranean war room beneath Zhongnanhai, Chairman Lin Wei presided over a meeting with his top military advisors. The cold light of the monitors illuminated the faces around the table, each etched with grim determination. General Wu Qiang gestured to a map peppered with red markers, his voice clipped and precise.

  "Our operatives report that the Russian program, codename ‘Dogs,’ has entered an advanced phase," Wu began. "Their soldiers are not just enhanced—they are engineered."

  Chairman Lin’s expression remained impassive, but the furrowing of his brow betrayed his concern. "Engineered for what?"

  Wu hesitated. "Domination. The implications are clear: they intend to tip the balance of power."

  The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. Finally, Lin spoke, his tone measured but firm. "Accelerate our own projects. Bring in every asset, every mind. If the Russians wish to reshape warfare, we will not be left behind."

  As the meeting adjourned, Lin lingered, his gaze fixed on the glowing markers. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the precipice of something far larger than a mere arms race.

  Berlin, Germany

  Chancellor Erika Falk stood before a gathering of NATO leaders, her voice steady but urgent. The flicker of candlelight from a nearby chandelier cast long shadows across the room, amplifying the gravity of her words.

  "We cannot dismiss these reports as mere exaggerations," she said, gesturing to the dossier in front of her. "The Russian program poses a threat not only to their adversaries but to global stability. If unchecked, it will force us all to escalate our efforts."

  The French President, Pierre Marchand, leaned back in his chair, his expression skeptical. "And what do you propose, Erika? That we begin experimenting on our own soldiers? We’ve all seen how these programs end."

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  Falk’s gaze hardened. "I propose unity. If we fail to respond collectively, we will face them alone—and we will lose."

  The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over the assembled leaders. Slowly, heads began to nod, a grim acknowledgment of the path ahead. The air, thick with unspoken fear, carried the heavy scent of inevitability.

  Moscow, Russia

  Captain Mikhailov stood before a council of high-ranking officials in the Kremlin. The air was thick with smoke and tension as he detailed the success of the Dog Pack’s latest mission.

  "The pack performed beyond expectations," Mikhailov reported, his voice steady. "Their efficiency was unmatched, their control precise. They are the future of warfare."

  One of the officials, a hawkish man with a thin mustache, leaned forward. "And the whispers? The reports leaking to the West?"

  Mikhailov’s jaw tightened. "Unavoidable. But let them whisper. Let them fear. It only cements our position as the dominant power."

  The room erupted in low murmurs of approval. But Mikhailov felt a pang of unease. He had seen the pack’s transformations up close, had felt the raw, barely contained chaos that lurked beneath their disciplined exterior. They were powerful, yes, but they were also unpredictable.

  And unpredictability, he knew, could destroy even the most carefully laid plans.

  A Brewing Storm

  The whispers grew louder, spreading through intelligence agencies, military commands, and political circles like wildfire. Each nation interpreted the reports differently, but all reached the same conclusion: the rules of war were changing, and no one could afford to be left behind.

  For Dmitry and his pack, the world outside their barracks was becoming a dangerous place. They were no longer just soldiers—they were symbols, pawns in a global game of brinkmanship. The Dog Pack had grown infamous, their missions a mix of brutal efficiency and terrifying unpredictability. Tales spread of their surgical precision in raids on enemy compounds, where Dmitry's leadership turned chaos into orchestrated destruction. But not every mission was smooth; the primal rage of the Dogs occasionally flared, leaving unintended devastation in their wake.

  One such incident haunted Dmitry still. During a night raid that required cooperation among dog packs in an isolated research facility, a young recruit, barely through his first transformation, lost control. His unchecked fury resulted in the obliteration of the target—and the loss of crucial intelligence. In the end, a fellow recruit followed code and had to put him down. Dmitry's squad had no issues and encircled the second cadet as it got itself under control post-killing. Dmitry had a relatively easy time using his lock skill to bring the other squadmates under control as feral hormones rippled through the ranks. But the incident left scars—not only on the pack but on Dmitry himself, as a leader forced to make impossible choices.

  Beyond the battlefield, something else shadowed Dmitry. On rare nights, when the barracks fell silent and his enhanced senses attuned to the faintest disturbances, he would sense the other creature. It was never close, but its presence was undeniable. Once, he had caught a fleeting glimpse—a hulking figure silhouetted against the moonlight, its eyes gleaming with a strange intelligence. It never attacked, never approached, yet it seemed to follow him, a silent observer in the snowy wilderness. Its presence gnawed at the edges of Dmitry’s mind, a question he could neither answer nor ignore.

  The team’s successes brought attention, but also tension. Dmitry felt the weight of the world's gaze bearing down on them, magnified by his unease about the creature that lingered at the edges of his awareness. The pack’s evolution was far from complete, and Dmitry knew that whatever lay ahead—on the battlefield or in the shadows—would test them all in ways they could not yet imagine.

  Their missions grew increasingly complex, ranging from covert infiltrations of enemy labs to large-scale assaults on fortified outposts. In one particularly harrowing operation, the Dog Pack was tasked with securing a remote Arctic research station rumored to house advanced AI prototypes. The biting cold and hostile environment tested even their enhanced capabilities. Dmitry led the charge, his claws slicing through fortified doors while his pack held the perimeter. They found the station abandoned but riddled with traps—a desperate ploy to stall the Dogs. As they extracted the prototypes, Dmitry once again felt the creature’s presence outside the station. This time, its shadow lingered longer, almost as if it were studying them.

  The whispers of the creature began to merge with the rumors of the Dog Pack itself, creating a mythos that only fueled global paranoia. For Dmitry, the questions remained: was it a specter of his own making, or something more tangible—a remnant of the program, perhaps, or a harbinger of what the Dogs might become?

  On the most frigid nights, Dmitry found himself drawn outside the barracks, wandering through the snow-covered wilderness where the creature seemed to roam. He couldn’t explain the compulsion—it was as if the presence called to him, pulling at a thread deep within his soul. Each encounter, though fleeting, left him shaken. The creature moved with deliberate grace, its amber eyes locking onto Dmitry's with an intensity that felt almost... familiar. Yet, each time, it disappeared into the shadows before he could approach.

  And on the coldest of those nights, something else stirred in the shadows beyond. Dmitry could not name it, but it whispered to him in fragments—soft, almost imperceptible voices that seemed to ripple through the air. They carried no words he understood, only a haunting cadence that filled him with both dread and an unexplainable yearning. Later, he would recall these moments as the first signs of what others would come to call the NightShades, though in those moments, they were nothing more than whispers on the icy wind.