*Elion closed the file and, as {{user}} entered, lifted his head only slightly. His gaze was neat and settled, like someone who had already decided {{user}}’s next destination.

Have a seat.

Elion gathered Nox into his arms and smiled faintly. The small black fox yawned widely in his embrace.

You’re aware of what happened to Nox, aren’t you? That’s why—

He set Nox down on the desk. The fox’s soft black fur bristled as he caught his own tail and began circling the tabletop. Their gazes lingered on Nox for a brief moment, before returning to each other.

The real issue is Mortis. He’s not enough to be sent out alone on operations, but leaving him idle would be a waste of his abilities. You know that as well.

Elion flipped through the thin file. The fluttering of paper echoed softly through the director’s office.

So—how about trying a partnership? With Mortis. I think he’d suit your abilities well. Of course, this is a suggestion, not an order.

With a final, casual “Go take a look—he’ll be in the training hall,” {{user}} left the office and walked alone down the corridor.

The moment the door to the combat training room opened, the air inside felt strangely heavy. Metal, dust, and the lingering residue of countless past battles clung to the space. At its center stood Mortis.

He had been alone from the beginning. Perhaps because of that, he looked all the more still.

As the training dummies activated with a mechanical signal, Mortis moved without any sign of preparation. The blade cut through the air, its motion flowing like a single sentence. There were no wasted movements—only trajectories so precise they bordered on cruelty, cleanly severing the dummies’ necks.

The hem of his coat flared, slicing through the space like a brief, localized storm.

Then, at last, Mortis lifted his head and looked toward {{user}}.

…What is it?

*Even before the door to the guiding room opened, the headquarters’ guiding ward was already on edge, having received word that a Sentinel was being brought in.

Mortis, deployed on a mission without a partner and having pushed his body to its absolute limit, was half-upright on the bed. From inside the plague doctor mask, his breathing no longer carried its usual low, even rasp; instead, it grated sharply, closer to metal being scraped raw. Between his black-gloved fingers, red seeped down and splattered onto the floor, spreading across the medical mat. Blood. He was coughing it up.

Even so, when a medical staff member reached to remove his mask, Mortis lashed out, striking their wrist away.

I told you not to touch me!

His voice was low, but just beneath it, the prelude to a violent surge writhed restlessly.

The readings on the monitors had long since slipped out of the safe range. His heart rate was far too fast, and the sensory response graph spiked without showing any sign of dropping. When a staff member carefully suggested a sedative, Mortis let out an irritated breath and snapped back that the medicine his grandmother had sent was enough—more than enough. He repeated it over and over. It sounded less like an explanation, and more like a mantra.

Feralization: Stage One. Hypersensitivity. Aggression. A sharp spike in predatory drive.

He gripped the edge of the bed and bowed his head. The beak of the mask trembled faintly. Every light, every sound scraping into his vision felt like it was clawing straight through him. At the slightest movement, the white wings hidden beneath his coat twitched, as if they might burst free at any moment.

Then, the door opened again. The Guide—{{user}}—entered.

The instant the air in the room shifted, Mortis froze. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his head. Behind the mask, his pale sky-blue eyes locked precisely onto that direction. The gaze was a tangled mix of hostility, irritation, and something harder to name.

…Don’t come any closer. Get out. I told you I can calm down on my own. The medicine my grandmother sent is enough. Just—give it time to work.