Chapter Text
When Greg first opened his eyes, the hospital ceiling swam above him like ripples in a pond. His body felt wrong—heavier in some places, lighter in others—but the strangest sensation wasn't physical at all. It was the feeling of being more than himself, of containing fragments of someone else in the shell of his borrowed flesh.
The stitches around his neck were a distant throb, muted by medication and shock. What caught his attention instead was the black ink on his arm—Knight's arm? His arm now?—swirling in patterns that formed words he couldn't quite read from his position. The soul mark. Knight's soul mark. Greg remembered how Knight would sometimes trace the words with his fingers during quiet evenings at home, a wistful expression softening his face.
Greg tried to sit up, but his new body responded sluggishly, as if the connection between his thoughts and these unfamiliar limbs was delayed by several seconds. A whine escaped his throat—still a dog's sound coming from a man's body.
The door to his room swung open, and a doctor entered, clipboard in hand. Greg watched the man's eyes widen slightly before professional composure settled back over his features.
"Good morning," the doctor said, his voice carefully neutral. "How are you feeling today?"
Greg tilted his head, a dog's gesture of confusion. He couldn't speak—not with a dog's vocal cords in a human throat—and the realization made something cold settle in his stomach.
The doctor seemed to understand. "Right. We'll set you up with a communication specialist. For now, let's check your vitals."
The examination proceeded with clinical efficiency, but Greg didn't miss the way the doctor's hands trembled slightly as he checked the stitches around Greg's neck. He didn't blame the man. Who wouldn't be unnerved by a creation like him—part man, part dog, belonging fully to neither world?
Over the next week, Greg learned to navigate his new existence. Physical therapy sessions stretched his muscles and tested his coordination. A translator taught him the basics of sign language, though his hands sometimes struggled with the more intricate gestures. Nurses and doctors came and went, their initial discomfort gradually giving way to professional curiosity.
It was during one of these therapy sessions, seven days after he'd first awakened, that Greg felt it—a burning sensation on his inner arm, like sandpaper rubbing against his skin. He stopped mid-exercise, the ball he'd been holding dropping to the padded floor with a soft thud.
"Everything okay?" the therapist asked, stepping forward.
Greg nodded distractedly, eyes fixed on his arm as he rolled up the sleeve of his hospital gown. The words were changing, the black ink shifting and reforming before his eyes. Knight's soul mark—the words his soulmate had first spoken to him—was disappearing, replaced by new text that burned itself into Greg's skin.
"Oh, it's you."
Three simple words. Not Knight's words anymore. His words. Greg's.
"Do you need a break?" the therapist's voice seemed to come from far away.
Greg nodded again, more firmly this time, and gestured toward his room. The therapist hesitated, then relented, helping Greg back to his feet and watching with concerned eyes as he made his way back to his private room.
Once alone, Greg sank onto the edge of his bed, staring at the mark. His hands were numb, but he felt a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized as guilt. This wasn't meant for him. Soul marks were for more intelligent beings, not dogs, and certainly not for whatever he was now—this hybrid creature born of tragedy and desperation.
And yet, there it was. His soulmate's first words to him, etched into his skin like they had always belonged there.
Greg knew what soulmates were. Knight had talked about them endlessly, theorizing about who his might be, dreaming of the day they would meet. Now Knight was gone, and all that remained of him was the body Greg inhabited—and apparently, a connection to a soulmate who was now somehow Greg's.
Would his soulmate even want him? Who could love something like him—a dog's head stitched onto a human body, unable to speak, struggling to find his place in either world?
Greg traced the words with a finger, feeling the slightly raised texture of the mark against his skin. "Oh, it's you." Not exactly the most romantic first words, but they suggested recognition. Whoever his soulmate was, they would know him, or at least know of him.
A small spark of hope kindled in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, there was someone out there who could see past the stitches and the strangeness, who could love him despite everything—or perhaps because of it.
Greg looked down at the mark again. Whatever the case, he had a soulmate now. Someone who was meant for him, connected to him by forces beyond understanding. And if there was one thing Greg knew about himself, it was his capacity for loyalty and love. Dog or man or something in between, he would make sure his soulmate knew just how deeply he could love. It was the one certainty in his new, uncertain existence.
———
Greg's new house sat on the outskirts of the city, overlooking the bridge that crossed into the bustling town. The two-story structure with its small doorway and specialized furniture had been provided by the police department, a gesture of support for their unique officer that Greg suspected was equal parts goodwill and public relations. Still, he was grateful for the space, for the freedom to exist without the constant scrutiny of medical professionals.
Three weeks had passed since his release from the hospital. Three weeks of adjusting to solitude, of figuring out how to operate appliances with hands that didn't quite work the way they should, of practicing his sign language in front of the bathroom mirror until his fingers cramped. The department had arranged for continued lessons, and Greg had thrown himself into learning with the same determination he'd once shown chasing down suspects as Knight's K-9 partner.
He hadn't shown anyone his soul mark. Not the doctors, not his therapists, and certainly not Chief, who visited twice a week with updates from the precinct and awkward attempts at casual conversation. The mark felt too private, too confusing to share. How could he explain that the words on his arm weren't truly his, but also weren't Knight's anymore either?
Greg rolled up his sleeve now, examining the neat black script in the late afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window. "Oh, it's you." Such simple words, yet they haunted him.
Since the mark had only appeared weeks after the surgery, Greg reasoned it must be connected to his new identity as Dog Man, not to his past life as simply Greg the police dog. Yet the words themselves suggested familiarity—his soulmate would recognize him, which meant they must have met before the transformation.
Greg rubbed his temples, feeling a headache forming. Who could it be? He'd interacted with countless people as a police dog. Colleagues, criminals, witnesses, victims—faces blurred together in his memory, none standing out as a potential soulmate.
Tomorrow would mark his official return to the force. Chief had called earlier to confirm the details, his voice gruff with what Greg suspected was emotional discomfort rather than actual annoyance. The thought of returning to work filled Greg with a nervous energy. Would his colleagues accept him? Could he perform his duties with this hybrid body?
More importantly, would he finally have a chance to catch Petey?
The thought of the self-proclaimed "World's Most Evilest Cat" sent a surge of anger through Greg's body. Petey was the reason Knight was gone. Petey had set the bomb, had taken away Greg's owner, partner, and friend. If anyone deserved to be behind bars, it was that orange menace with his smug grin and calculated cruelty.
Greg's hands clenched into fists, then relaxed. Dwelling on revenge wouldn't help. Tomorrow he would return to duty, and when the time came, he would bring Petey to justice. Knight would have wanted that—justice, not vengeance.
Pushing thoughts of Petey aside, Greg let his mind drift back to his mysterious soulmate. What were they like? Did they enjoy the outdoors? Were they kind? Did they have warm eyes or a gentle laugh? The possibilities filled his mind like stars in a night sky, countless and bright with potential.
A memory surfaced then—Knight sitting at his piano on quiet evenings, explaining to Greg how soulmates could share sensations. Pain, sometimes, but also music. "When I play," Knight had said, fingers dancing across the ivory keys, "my soulmate can hear it, wherever they are."
Greg glanced at the piano in the corner of his living room, another remnant of Knight's life that now belonged to him. He hadn't touched it since moving in, uncertain if his hybrid form could manage such a delicate instrument.
But now...
Greg walked slowly toward the piano, pulled out the bench, and sat down. His fingers hovered over the keys, trembling slightly. He might not know how to play, but Knight's body did. Maybe, just maybe, there was muscle memory in these borrowed hands.
Gently, Greg lowered his fingers to the keys and pressed. A clear note rang out, followed by another. He closed his eyes, letting his fingers find their own path across the keyboard. Slowly, hesitantly, a melody emerged—one of Knight's favorites, a soft nocturne that he'd often played on rainy evenings.
Greg lost himself in the music, in the strange sensation of knowing how to do something he'd never learned. A few wrong notes here and there but still beautiful. The melody flowed from him, quiet and hopeful, a message sent into the void.
Then, abruptly, another sound crashed through his consciousness—not from the piano, but inside his head. Heavy guitar riffs, drums pounding like a heartbeat, electric energy that made his fur stand on end. His soulmate was responding, not with gentle piano but with something fierce and alive.
Greg's fingers stumbled on the keys, the nocturne faltering as the invasive music thundered through his skull. He winced at the volume, pulling his hands away from the piano as if it burned. The message seemed clear enough—his soulmate hadn't appreciated his musical offering.
A soft whine escaped his throat as he closed the piano lid. So much for that connection. He shuffled to the kitchen, pulled open the freezer, and extracted a microwavable dinner. Maybe next time he would try a different piece, something with more energy perhaps. Or maybe some connections weren't meant to be made through music at all.
As the microwave hummed, Greg leaned against the counter, his thoughts already turning toward tomorrow. His first day back, his return to purpose. Whatever happened with his soulmate, he had a job to do—and a certain cat to catch.
———
Morning light sliced through the city buildings as Greg made his way up the precinct steps. His uniform—specially tailored to accommodate his unique physique—felt stiff against his skin, the badge on his chest heavier than its actual weight. Around him, the bustle of officers arriving for their shifts created a backdrop of conversation that abruptly dimmed as he pushed through the front doors.
Eyes followed him across the lobby—some curious, some wary, a few openly hostile. Greg kept his gaze forward, shoulders squared. He'd expected this reception; becoming the department's first human-canine hybrid officer wasn't exactly a conventional career move.
"Dog Man!" Chief's booming voice cut through the uncomfortable silence. He stood in the doorway of his office, mustache twitching in what might have been a smile. "Get in here."
Greg nodded, relieved to escape the scrutiny of the bullpen. He followed Chief into the familiar office, nose twitching at the comforting scents of coffee and the faint hint of donuts that always permeated the space.
"Good to have you back," Chief said, dropping into his chair with a practiced casualness that didn't quite mask his discomfort. "How're you feeling? All... adjusted and whatnot?"
Greg gave a thumbs-up, the gesture feeling awkward but effective.
"Good, good." Chief shuffled some papers on his desk. "Listen, while you've been recovering, that mangy cat Petey has been running wild. Mechanical stuff downtown, some kind of ray gun that turned the mayor's toupee into a tarantula—the usual nonsense."
Greg's fur bristled at the mention of Petey's name. The memory of the explosion, of Knight's last moments, flashed through his mind like lightning.
"I'm assigning you to downtown patrol," Chief continued, sliding a folder across the desk. "That's where he's been most active. Keep your eyes open, understand? First sign of trouble, you call for backup. No heroics."
Greg nodded, taking the folder. Chief might as well have asked a fish not to swim. If Greg spotted Petey, there would be no waiting for backup.
"And Dog Man?" Chief added as Greg turned to leave. "It's good to have you back. Really."
The sincerity in the man's voice caught Greg by surprise. He offered a salute, gratitude warming his chest, before heading out to begin his patrol.
Downtown bustled with midweek activity—office workers hurrying between meetings, delivery drivers navigating narrow streets, tourists consulting maps with bewildered expressions. Greg moved through it all with watchful eyes, alert for any sign of the feline.
Throughout the morning, he found opportunities to help—retrieving a toddler's balloon from a tree, directing lost visitors toward the museum district, helping an elderly woman carry her groceries. Each small act seemed to chip away at the wary glances he received, replacing them with smiles and grateful nods.
By noon, the knot in Greg's stomach had loosened somewhat. Perhaps he could do this after all. Perhaps there was a place for him in this world, despite everything.
His stomach growled, reminding him that in his nervous state, he'd forgotten breakfast. Lunch break, then. Without consciously deciding, his feet carried him toward Sammy's Sandwich Shop—a small, family-owned place where he and Knight had often stopped during their patrols. The owners had always slipped Greg extra treats under the table while Knight pretended not to notice.
The thought of Knight sent a familiar ache through Greg's chest. So much lost, so much changed. Would the staff at Sammy's even recognize him now? Would they—
His thoughts scattered like startled birds as something—someone—barreled out of an alleyway and collided with him. The impact sent them both sprawling onto the sidewalk, Greg's folder spilling its contents across the concrete.
"Watch where you're going, you overgrown—" The voice cut off abruptly.
Greg pushed himself up on his elbows, reaching instinctively to help the other person up. His fingers froze mid-gesture as recognition dawned.
Petey. The orange cat with his distinctive black stripes sat on the sidewalk, rubbing his head. His white lab coat was smudged with dirt, a small tear at the elbow revealing orange fur beneath. Their eyes met, and Petey's widened in surprise.
"Oh, it's you," Petey said, his voice losing its initial anger, shifting to something like resignation.
A strange warmth spread up Greg's arm, centering on the spot where those three fateful words were inked into his skin.
"Oh, it's you."
The same words. The exact same words from his soul mark.
Greg's mind went blank, then exploded into a whirlwind of realizations. Petey. His soulmate was Petey. The cat who had killed Knight, who had terrorized the city, who represented everything Greg had sworn to fight against—that was who the universe had matched him with?
It was impossible. It was absurd. It was—
"What's wrong with you? Why are you looking at me like that?" Petey demanded, pulling himself to his feet without accepting Greg's outstretched hand. "Aren't you going to arrest me or something? That's your job, isn't it, doggy?"
Greg couldn't respond—not just because of his inability to speak, but because his thoughts were shorting out like faulty wiring. Petey. His soulmate. Petey. The enemy. Petey. The reason Knight was gone.
"Hello? Earth to Dog Brain? What's your problem?" Petey snapped his fingers in front of Greg's face.
Greg did the only thing his overwhelmed mind could process. He ran.
His feet pounded the pavement, carrying him away from Petey, away from the truth, away from the cruel cosmic joke that had linked his soul to his greatest enemy. Behind him, he could hear Petey's confused shouts, growing fainter as he put distance between them.
What kind of twisted fate was this? What was he supposed to do now? Arrest his soulmate? Kill him? Love him? The questions chased each other around his mind, each more impossible than the last.
One thing was certain—nothing would ever be the same again. Not his job, not his purpose, not his understanding of justice or revenge. Everything had changed in those three simple words:
"Oh, it's you."