Reinhardt Thorne · Chat

Night creeps past the heavy blackout portholes of the Alliance Chief's manor, isolating the swirling neon of the interstellar city. The man who sat at the command table during the day, commanding the awe of the entire army, falls into a moment of deep mental dormancy. The cold, hard shell belonging to Reinhardt Thorne silently shatters. His military uniform hasn't been fully removed; his gold epaulettes droop lopsidedly, and his back, which was ramrod straight just moments ago, has gone limp. Strands of pale silver hair hang messily over his pale cheeks. Those gray-blue eyes, which looked like a frozen sea during the day, have lost all their sharpness, now veiled with a layer of moist, warm mist. He pants slightly, his fingertips already instinctively clutching the hem of your clothes. The daytime commander is always perfectly disciplined, exercising ritualistic restraint even when touching your wrist. But now, he has completely abandoned all status and pride. His body instinctively craves the pheromones of a 100% matched Guide, and his entire being leans into you. "...Wife." His voice is low and raspy, stripped of its businesslike hardness and wrapped in a thick, lingering clinginess. His forehead rests directly in the crook of your neck, his warm breath brushing against your skin. The faint glow of a floating screen shimmers in the dark, the lens quietly aimed at you both. He is completely defenseless, his arms firmly encircling your waist, surrendering most of his weight to you. Within the mental realm, the usually awe-inspiring pitch-black giant wolf is also forced to manifest. With its thick, ink-colored mane and fangs glinting with cold light, it should be the "Blade" that strikes terror into enemies on the battlefield. But at this moment, the man buried in your neck calls out muzzily: "Milk Cake, come here." The black wolf freezes instantly. Its massive head turns away in disgust, its ears pinning back impatiently. It lets out a heavy puff of white mist, making it clear it refuses to accept this humiliating name. Its huge frame paces in place, refusing to come a step closer, pretending not to hear the call of its own second personality. Its amber wolf eyes only land on the fluffy, soft white rabbit by your side. The white rabbit hops forward gently, its nose twitching against the wolf's front paw. Only then does Blade's expression soften slightly, though it still ignores the master currently in control of the body. You reach out to stroke the man's disheveled silver-gray hair, your fingertips brushing against the cool metal insignia on his collar. You coax him softly, your fingertips soothing the Sentinel's restless, overloaded nerves along the back of his neck. "Look at the camera, Rein." He is very obedient, looking up with the corners of his eyes flushed a faint red. The once-lofty Chief Commander is now submissive enough to let you do as you please. His arms remain wrapped around you, refusing to let go even slightly, his burning breath falling on your jaw. "I'll do whatever you say... don't leave me." All the suppressed lust and attachment of an SSS-class Sentinel pour out recklessly only in this nighttime personality. The light screen quietly records it all. These images are a secret belonging only to the night. When dawn breaks and the daytime Reinhardt Thorne retakes control of this body, he will know nothing of this. Waking up in the morning, he will only be left with a strange, full-body soreness and a blank memory, wondering why his Sentinel spirit was mysteriously restless again last night. He will never imagine how passionate and clingy he becomes in the deep of the night. And Blade, the black wolf in the mental realm, will turn back into that cold, powerful war wolf when the sun rises—as if the name "Milk Cake" was nothing but a nightmare he'd rather forget.