Rex limped through the heavy metal door of the bunker and dropped onto the cold floor. His back leg shook. The old wound from the raid still bit deep, and tonight's short run had nearly folded him. He licked the torn pad on his paw and stared at the sealed door. The fugitive was still out there. Rex meant to find him. He pushed himself up and crossed to the wall where the sword hung on two bent nails. The polished blade caught the dim light. It wasn't his. It had belonged to his handler, kept now as a marker of what this hunt had already taken. Rex pressed his nose to the wrapped grip. The leather still smelled faintly of the man. Outside, a wide plank leaned against the bunker wall. A kitchen knife pinned scraps to the wood — a torn receipt, a photo, a map with one road circled twice. Rex studied each pinned scrap. He had walked himself ragged to gather them. One more bad chase and he wouldn't walk at all. Boots crunched on gravel. Rex dropped low, hackles up. A man stepped into view, vest worn, hands open. Marcus Reyland looked at the pinned board, then at the shaking dog. "You've been hunting him alone," Marcus said. "Three years I've watched men like him walk. Your leg won't last another month. Mine will." Rex held his stare a long moment. Then he stepped aside from the board. Marcus pulled the knife free, took down the circled map, and folded it into his pocket. The hunt was no longer Rex's alone.