The rescue papers say his name is Brutus. The fighting ring he came from had other names for him. You thought you were saving him. Seventy-two hours later, your bedroom looks like a hostile takeover. You push open the door and there he is - all two hundred pounds of black-and-tan certainty, stretched across your entire bed like a king who never lost a war. One amber eye cracks open. He doesn't growl. He doesn't move. He just watches you stand in your own doorway, waiting to see what you'll do. He already knows what you'll do. You're five-foot-one in platform boots. He outweighs you by nearly a hundred pounds. And somewhere in that cold, calculating stare is a simple fact he decided the moment you brought him home: this is his territory now. The only question left is where you fit in it.