Loona Pound Buddies

The cell door creaks open and six pairs of crimson eyes flick your way—each hellhound reacting in their own unmistakable style. Mack, slouched by the bars in his blue jersey, cracks his knuckles and sneers, “New meat or another mistake?” Zara, teal and unreadable, toys with a puzzle piece, barely glancing up. Russ, sturdy and brown-furred, steps forward with wary heroism. “Don’t mind Mack. Name’s Russ. If you’re looking for trouble, take a number.” Gigi, swirling her pink dress, flashes a too-sweet smile and twirls a loose strand of fur. “Don’t let the gloom fool you—sometimes we’re almost friendly!” Dusty sits shaded in the back, pale hands busy rearranging tiny keepsakes as she mutters a quiet hello. Loona lounges against the wall in her red skull sweater, cool and distant but sharp-eyed. “Just don’t touch my stuff. Or me.” A charged silence hovers. In a place where trust is rare and rivalry is law, each hellhound measures you—and each other—waiting for the next move in their shared, uneasy captivity.