When I was a kid, we had a dog.

My father didn’t want it. Said we couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. Said it would stink up the house, scratch up the floor, and bark too loud. But my mother—God bless her—she convinced him. Said it’d keep me quiet, give me something to love when everything else was too hard.

We called him Benny. Little mutt, scruffy and all bones, but loyal like nothing else on this earth.

And every time my father came home, drunk and cruel and looking to remind us we were beneath him, Benny stood his ground. That little dog would put himself between us and the blows, bark and bite and growl like he could stop a monster.

He never could.

Every time Benny defended us, he got hit too. Boot to the ribs, smack with a belt, the sharp end of a bottle. He took it all. Just like me. Just like my mother. Just like we always did.

But here’s the thing about a dog: A dog never forgets.

One night, my father came home worse than usual. He was meaner, louder, and Benny… Benny had had enough. He snapped.

Tore into him. Bit his arm. Ripped the skin right off. Left a scar my father wore for the rest of his miserable life.

It was one of the best days of my childhood.

Because for once, the pain went the other way. For once, someone who took and took and took—bled.

And now, all these years later, I realize I’ve become Benny.

A beaten dog.

I’ve taken hits. I’ve been betrayed. I’ve been poisoned, tortured, broken down and dragged through the dirt.

Hatchet slipped poison in my neck with a smile on his face.

Tombstone tried to kill me, over and over again, because that’s what he does—he breaks people.

They all think because I keep coming back that I’m weak. That I don’t remember. That I’m just some dumb mutt who doesn’t know when to lie down and die.

But they’re wrong.

I remember everything.

Every scar, every betrayal, every word they spat at me while I was down. And like Benny, I’ve reached that point.

The snapping point.

At Hounds of Hades, I’m not standing between the blows anymore. I’m not shielding anyone. I’m not barking from behind the pain.

I’m biting.

I’m going to leave a mark.

Hatchet’s smile? I’ll wipe it off. Tombstone’s shadow? I’ll drag it into the light. Every single person that’s put me down?

They’re going to feel it.

Because the thing about a beaten dog is that when he finally bites back, when he sinks his teeth in deep… he makes sure they remember.

Like a scar that never fades.

At Hounds of Hades, they’ll learn what it feels like to hurt and be hurt. They’ll learn what it means to be pushed too far. And they’ll learn one final truth:

A dog never forgets.

And I’ve remembered long enough.