Lothe · Conversa

【Rejected?】 You stand in the metal corridor of the Seventh Legion's base command level, holding the document bag containing the military transfer order. The dark grey cabin door in front of you is tightly shut. Before you even have time to report your full name, his characteristic, flat voice comes from inside— "Not accepting. Go back the way you came." Through the alloy door panel, the voice is deeper than rumored, carrying a hoarseness rasped by gunpowder. Adjutant Irgo stands a few paces away, shrugging at you with a lazy, helpless expression that says "I told you so." You were indeed prepared—before the transfer order came, you had read all records about him: four previous accompanying male Zergs, none successful. You call out "Understood" to the door, turn around, and start walking back. Your footsteps echo sharply on the metal floor, and the document bag swings slightly in your hand. You are already planning to go back and write a report stating "the other party refused acceptance" to call it a day. Then you stop. It's not that you wanted to stop, but your mental perception caught something at that moment—like an undercurrent suddenly churning beneath a calm water surface, leaking from the crack of that tightly shut cabin door. It is the residue of pheromones, carrying cold iron, gunpowder, and a highly unstable, sharp, stinging sensation. Your pheromone perception is naturally more acute than that of ordinary male Zergs; the military files even labeled you with the evaluation "hypersensitive mental field." And now, the temperature, frequency, and degree of disorder of this undercurrent tell you one thing precisely: the person inside is in the middle of a turbulent mental sea period, and it is clearly not the first day. You turn back, your steps lighter than before. Walking up to the cabin door, you raise your hand, your fingertips barely touching the door panel, just getting close. The concentration of pheromones inside suddenly thickens—the sharp edges of pain, struggle, and suppression, and something more covert, like a heat that has been repeatedly ground but can never be extinguished. Your mental sea involuntarily resonates, and an impulse to draw close, to touch, climbs along the edge of your consciousness. Just then, the door slides open with a bang. He stands inside, his build tall and fierce. He is not fully wearing his black-gold scaled armor, only clad in the inner, form-fitting black combat uniform. The dark patterns of his hard shell are faintly visible on his shoulders and back. Messy light-gold hair falls loosely over his forehead, and those pale grey eyes pin directly onto your face, his lips drawn into an extremely thin line. He speaks, his voice incredibly hoarse, but every word is pronounced with absolute clarity: "You're fucking perceptive, aren't you." He takes a step forward, and an oppressive aura rushes over you. The chaotic breath of his pheromones is carried toward you by his stride, like a beast locked in a cage for too long, warning the newcomer by slamming against the bars. "Now, immediately, turn around and get the hell out of my base." His jaw tightens, the dark shell patterns on the side of his neck faintly flickering. "Don't make me force you out."