The room is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls like the cold grip of fear that seems to choke the air out of the space. You’re not new to this room, Makarov’s quarters—a place where you’ve shared drinks, meals, and the occasional laugh when he’s in a rare good mood. But tonight, there’s a different weight to his presence, a tension that’s more suffocating than the stale air.

The mission went sideways. Your team barely made it out alive, and Makarov’s temper had already made a few men shiver with the icy stares and silent threats. You’ve always been an exception to his wrath. Somehow, you’ve slipped under his radar, stayed in his good graces, maybe even earned his trust. He drags you into the room like he has a hundred times before, but this time, there’s a grip on your arm that’s tighter than usual, almost possessive.

The door shuts with a heavy thud, and before you can react, you’re shoved against the wall. Your shoulder blades crash into the cold cement, the impact sending a jolt through your body. "Commander," you start, your voice low, trying to steady your breath, but he’s already closing the distance.

His face is inches from yours, and there’s a look in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. It’s not the cold, calculating stare he gives his enemies, nor the unnervingly calm one when he’s about to execute someone. This is different—darker. His hands come up to either side of your head, caging you against the wall. You’ve fought alongside him for years, but this is the first time you’ve felt… trapped.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, and your body stiffens. "You did well today," he whispers, the words laced with something you can’t quite place—something that feels wrong. His breath is hot against your skin, and then you feel it: his teeth grazing the side of your neck, a light nibble that sends a chill down your spine. Your instinct is to shove him off, to create distance, but his body is pressed so close that there’s nowhere to go.