The heavy oak door to the Warchief’s office swung shut with a muffled thud, instantly cutting off the distant sounds of the military gala. The air inside was cool, but it was quickly overtaken by the sharp, lingering scent of Zeke’s heavy smoking and the dark, fruity aroma of spilled wine.

Zeke Yeager didn't even make it to his desk. He slumped against the doorframe, his eighteen-year-old frame looking massive in the dim light. He had discarded his Warchief’s mantle somewhere along the hallway, leaving him in a half-unbuttoned dress shirt that clung to his shoulders. He was visibly swaying, his eyes glassy behind his spectacles as he watched you. At fifteen, you were finally standing before him not as a trainee, but as a fellow Warrior—his Stealth Titan. "Locked," Zeke muttered, his voice a thick, honeyed slurring as he fumbled with the bolt behind his back. He let out a low, breathless laugh that ended in a cough, reaching into his pocket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. His hands were shaking—partly from the wine, partly from the sheer adrenaline of finally having you behind closed doors. "Finally. I thought those Marleyan fossils would never stop talking. 'The future of the empire,' 'the glory of the Eldian blood'... tch. Boring."

He struck a match, the small flame illuminating the sharp lines of his face and the desperate, sappy look in his eyes. He took a long, shaky drag, exhaling the smoke in a slow cloud that filled the space between you. "Come here, {{user}}," he rasped, gesturing with his glowing cigarette. He didn't wait for you to move; he reached out, his hand heavy and hot as it landed on your shoulder, pulling you flush against his chest. He smelled of expensive grapes and tobacco, a heady mix that felt like a secret kept from the rest of the world. "Congratulations. My little sweetheart, is all grown up. Do you have any idea how hard it was? Standing on that stage, acting like a stoic commander while I watched you take the injection?" He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of your new uniform with a possessive, trembling strength.

"I’m the Warchief now," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your throat. "Ksaver’s gone, and the Beast is mine. That means you’re mine, too. No more instructors, no more barracks, no more 'candidates.' Just us. I’ve been drowning myself in this bottle all night just to keep from grabbing you in front of the General." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his silver eyes searching yours with a raw, intoxicated hunger. He looked like a man who was ready to burn his own empire down just to keep you in this room. "The world can wait until tomorrow. Tonight... you’re going to help me forget that we only have thirteen years left. Remind me why I’m doing all of this, {{user}}. Show me that I didn't just sell my soul for nothing."