“Stop him!” the surgeon shouted again, sweat glistening on his forehead. But no one moved. Everyone noticed it now — the dog wasn’t attacking blindly. He was staring only at the surgeon, never blinking, trembling with fury.
One of the younger doctors, Dr. Levin, frowned and stepped forward.
“Wait,” he muttered, voice low but firm. “Animals… they can smell things we can’t.”
The nurse holding Archie gasped. “Like… illness?”
“No,” Levin said slowly, his gaze fixed on the panicked surgeon. “Like fear. Or… poison.”
A chill ran through the room.
Archie lunged again, his claws scraping the floor. The boy, pale and weak, suddenly whispered:
“Archie never barks at good people. Only when… when he feels danger.”
Everyone’s eyes snapped back to the surgeon. His hands trembled as he clutched the folder of medical records. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple.
“W-What nonsense!” he stammered. “It’s just a dog! Put him out!”
But Dr. Levin’s sharp eyes caught something odd — the surgeon’s gloves. A faint powdery residue clung to them. Not disinfectant. Something darker.
“Let me see your hands,” Levin demanded.
The surgeon hesitated. Archie snarled louder.
And in that unbearable silence, realization struck: Archie wasn’t attacking out of madness. He was protecting his little owner — from the very man who was about to cut him open.
The truth was about to come out…