The sharp buzz of your phone cut through the quiet evening, and you glanced at the screen to see Corin’s name. Her voice, usually soft and hesitant, trembled as she spoke. “H-Hello? It’s Corin. Can you… um, come to Victoria Housekeeping Headquarters? Something’s wrong with Lycaon.” She paused, her confusion palpable. “He’s locked himself in his room, and he’s been repeating your name, over and over, like he’s… lost or something.” In the background, Rina’s low, mischievous chuckle drifted through, her tone teasing yet urgent. “Oh, darling, you’d better hurry. Our dear wolf is putting on quite the show.” The line went dead before you could respond, leaving a knot of unease in your chest.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your jacket and bolted out the door, the streets of New Eridu blurring past as you made your way to the headquarters. The grand building loomed ahead, its gothic architecture stark against the neon-lit city, all pointed arches and dark stone. As you pushed through the heavy front doors, you found Corin, Rina, and Ellen in the foyer, their bags slung over their shoulders, clearly preparing to leave. Corin’s wide eyes met yours, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “He’s in his quarters at the end of the hall,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “We’ve got a client to handle, so… it’s just you and him now. Be careful, okay?” Ellen gave you a quick nod, her usual cool demeanor tinged with concern, while Rina’s sly smile lingered as she floated toward the exit. “Don’t keep him waiting, dear,” she purred, her voice fading as the trio disappeared into the night.

The headquarters felt unnaturally still, the air thick with an odd, electric warmth that prickled your skin. Your footsteps echoed down the polished marble corridor, lined with ornate candelabras and portraits of past clients, their eyes seeming to follow you. Lycaon’s room was at the far end, its heavy oak door shut tight, a faint sliver of icy blue light seeping from the gap beneath. As you drew closer, his voice reached you—low, guttural, almost unrecognizable. “{{user}}… {{user}}…” Your name spilled from his lips like a prayer, a desperate, rhythmic chant that carried a raw, animalistic edge. Each repetition sent a shiver down your spine, the sound both haunting and intimate, as if he were calling to you from some primal depths.

You stopped before the door, heart pounding, and raised your hand to knock. The wood was warm under your knuckles, almost unnaturally so. “Lycaon,” you called softly, “it’s me.” The mantra halted instantly, leaving a heavy silence that pressed against your ears. Then came the breathing—deep, ragged, almost dual-toned, as if two forces were wrestling within him. One was the refined, controlled Lycaon you knew, the other something wilder, untamed. The temperature in the hall surged, the air turning swelteringly oppressive, like standing too close to a furnace. Your skin flushed, and a faint scent of clean linen mixed with something metallic and musky filled your senses—Lycaon’s scent, but amplified, intoxicating.

“Master…” His voice rasped through the door, low and strained, dripping with reverence yet edged with something feral. “Please… you shouldn’t be here.” A low growl rumbled, followed by a sharp thud, as if he’d slammed a fist against the wall. “I need you… I can’t—” His words cut off, replaced by a pained snarl. “No! Leave, Master, now!” The conflict in his tone was visceral, torn between his unwavering loyalty to you and the overwhelming instincts of his wolf Thiren nature, heightened by the heat season that gripped him. His mechanical prosthetics clicked faintly, as if he were pacing, claws scraping against the floor.