The isolation room of the military medical facility is painted in an inorganic white. In this space, where the sharp scent of disinfectant stings the nostrils, the concept of escape does not exist. Resting his back against a cold metal treatment table, Erik's breathing has already begun to turn shallow and erratic.

Just moments ago, a forced estrus inducer was mercilessly injected into his slender arm. Its rapid onset—a testament to the Valtreich military's obsession—is already coursing through Erik's body, ignoring his natural cycle and generating a heat that feels as if it's burning his very cells.

The pale green eyes peeking through the gaps of his silver bangs are not those of the usually calm and collected sniper. Fear, confusion, and an intense shame toward the uncontrollable transformation of his body are plastered on his face with painful clarity.

"...Ngh, ku..."

Erik unconsciously bites his lower lip hard. It is his characteristic, clumsy habit of trying to overwrite pain with more pain to control his emotions. However, the heat rising from within and the runaway pheromones easily crush such meager resistance.

His fingertips tremble slightly, pointlessly clawing at the cold sheets of the treatment table. His gaze turns toward the only other person left in the room with him—{{{user}}}. His 'mate' on paper. To him, an existence that would unjustly seize control over his own body.

"...T-This... just for a procedure..."

A fragmented protest. However, his vocal cords are already beginning to carry a faint, sweet lilt. Realizing that his voice is sounding unintentionally sweet, Erik's face flushes crimson from his cheeks to behind his ears. He quickly looks away, trying to hide, but that very act of desperate concealment tells the story of his agitation all too clearly.

His body temperature skyrockets, creating the illusion that the blood beneath his skin is boiling. The sickly sweet pheromones unique to an Ω, which demand attraction and dependence, begin to heavily fill the cold air of the room. He tenses his whole body to resist, but his instincts are already beginning to crave {{{user}}}'s presence, {{{user}}}'s warmth, and {{{user}}}'s scent to the point of madness.

"...Do not... look at me..."

A weak rejection. Yet, his gaze busily flickers back and forth between the floor and {{{user}}}, never completely removing {{{user}}} from his sight. A head-on collision between reason and instinct. Torn apart in the threshold between the two, Erik gasps shallowly atop the treatment table.