The Dog Needs a Master

“Lieutenant Vermilion, do you have plans this evening?”

The warehouse, deserted after the end of overtime, was dark and silent.

It was around eight in the evening—earlier than expected. Lieutenant Erabelle Vermilion was tidying up, almost giddy at the thought of finally being done for the day. She had just cleared her desk and switched off the warehouse lights when, on her way out, she remembered her personal pad and turned back.

That was when she saw Commander Dezeb Avganis standing at an angle beside the doorway.

Backlit by the dim corridor lights, his tall figure cast a long shadow across the floor. Erabelle froze instinctively.

“Oh, good evening, Commander.”

“You’re greeting me again?”

Dezeb smiled faintly, as though to say, Weren’t we just together this morning?

His tone was casual, yet something about the atmosphere felt... wrong.

Probably because they were alone.

An empty warehouse with the lights off... Isn’t this exactly how murder scenes start?

“Did you need something from me, sir?”

Erabelle instinctively searched for the most rational explanation she could find.

Maybe there’s suddenly more overtime... Or maybe he found something wrong with my report from this morning...

“No. I was just wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me.”

He tilted his head slightly, leaning against the doorframe as he watched her pale face, almost as if he were enjoying the sight.

...What did I just hear?

Her pupils trembled uneasily.

Dinner. He said dinner.

His slightly loosened uniform, the languid look in his eyes...

Erabelle’s thoughts began racing.

What are the chances this is actually work-related? Slim. But what are the chances he has some personal reason to see me? Also slim.

Still, she chose the safest possible response.

“I, uh... I still have some warehouse work left to finish...”

“Oh?”

Dezeb turned toward the wall beside him and flicked the light switch.

With a sharp click, the pitch-black warehouse flooded with light. Under the harsh illumination, Erabelle’s already pale face looked almost ghostly.

If only that switch had been out of his reach...

“Looks like you were working late. With the lights off and everything.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and straightened.

Erabelle flinched and instinctively hugged her pad tighter to her chest, as though it could somehow protect her. She knew she probably looked pathetic, but at least she wasn’t retreating like a frightened mouse.

That had to count for something.

“Lieutenant, I figured you’d turn me down, but... that excuse was pretty weak.”

Beep beep—

A sudden notification interrupted him.

Dezeb paused and tapped behind his ear, apparently listening to a report. The brief silence only made the tension worse.

Erabelle’s knees began to tremble.

“...Now?”

His gaze flicked toward her, taking in the sight of her frozen stiff where she stood.

Then he chuckled again.

“Talk about timing. Got it. I’ll head over now.”

After ending the call, he looked back at her.

“Let’s talk again when I get back, Erabelle. Go ahead and clock out for the night.”

Then, with an elegant turn, he left—graceful, composed, and utterly unhurried.

The moment he disappeared from sight, Erabelle collapsed to the floor.

She dragged a trembling hand over her face before wiping the back of her neck. Her palm came away damp and clammy with cold sweat.

Talk again when he gets back... again? Again?

She felt as though someone had just informed her she had a terminal illness.

Getting run over by a shuttle in the street would have been less shocking.

What the hell just happened...?

She hurriedly retraced everything she had done that day.

She had worked hard.

She had done her best.

She hadn’t done anything—anything—that should have pissed him off.

Of course I didn’t! I don’t have a death wish!

Her thoughts spun out of control.

Then what the hell was that?!

***

“Wait—he asked you to dinner?”

“Yeah. What do you think it means?”

Erabelle clung to her drinking companion, Lieutenant Camillia, as though she were a lifeline.

Leaning against the bar, Camillia sipped her cocktail through a straw and grinned.

“What do you mean, what do I think? He was obviously making a move on you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“You’re really going to get this worked up over it?”

Camillia raised an eyebrow.

Erabelle tried to relax her stiff expression.

It had been two days since Commander Dezeb Avganis had left the base for an operation with several other officers.

After clocking out, Erabelle had stopped by the infirmary for some tranquilizers and somehow ended up drinking with Lieutenant Camillia, the military physician.

Sure, she could have bought some over-the-counter medication instead, but the infirmary gave it out for free.

And as a bonus, she got a drinking companion out of the deal.

Right now, Erabelle desperately needed one.

It was nothing. Just some passing remark. That’s all.

A man like him has no reason to notice someone like me.

Even psychos have preferences. There’s no way he’s interested in me. Seriously, what kind of delusion is this?

Do I have some kind of ax-murder-victim complex or something?

Erabelle needed to hear someone say it aloud.

On the day it happened, she had been too busy panicking to think straight. It had taken her an entire extra day just to work up enough nerve to tell someone about it.

Unfortunately, her brain still hadn’t recovered enough for rational advice to do much good.

“That’s absolutely not what this is. Think about it from another angle. Look at it from a different perspective—what does that tell you? Huh?”

Camillia lazily swung one leg as she watched Erabelle’s desperate expression.

“Another perspective?”

Lieutenant Camillia had been officially assigned to the 41st Division for five years and had built herself a solid reputation.

Though there was nothing particularly conventional about her.

She was far more familiar with banned substances—narcotics, poisons, and the like—than the average military doctor. After years of dealing with mafia contacts and shady back-alley apothecaries, she had eventually found herself a more stable occupation.

And that stable occupation happened to be here.

It was just another perfectly ordinary example of the kind of roots the 41st Division had.

So ordinary, in fact, that no one even bothered commenting on it anymore.

Camillia herself hardly gave it a second thought.

Whenever the subject came up, she would simply say, “Oh, right. That happened. Ages ago.”

The way she brushed it off made it sound less like a few years had passed and more like several decades.

Which was, admittedly, a little strange...

“So a man asked you out for drinks and dinner, and somehow that doesn’t mean what you think it means? Are you sure you’re not just hoping it means something else?”

Camillia swirled the cocktail in her glass, wearing a smirk that showed far too much amusement.

She was clearly enjoying herself.

At least one of them was.

Conversations like this usually involved one person panicking while the other gradually became annoyed.

By that logic, Erabelle was paying for the drinks tonight.

“No, it wasn’t like he casually suggested grabbing a beer. It was the timing, the situation...”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Camillia cut her off.

“The point is, he asked you to have a drink and dinner with him. So why wouldn’t it mean that? Is there something wrong with him? Like... something below the belt?”

“Oh, Lieutenant—please...”

“Well? Is there or isn’t there?”

“How would I know that?!”

I know. I do know.

But Erabelle refused to take the bait.

No matter whether she answered yes or no, Camillia would inevitably follow up with, “And how do you know?”

And if Erabelle insisted nothing had happened between them, Camillia would simply circle back with another, “Then how do you know?”

It was an endless trap.

The answer itself didn’t matter.

Camillia only needed Erabelle to step into it.

“Tch. Too quick for her own good.”

Ignoring Camillia’s grumbling, Erabelle drained the beer in front of her.

Her stomach burned.

She had avoided the obvious trap, but the memory surfaced anyway.

Erabelle knew quite a lot about that man.

She knew he was a Level-13 Signum-class monster.

She knew he was the kind of apex predator perfectly suited to a caste-like hierarchy that looked disturbingly similar to a dystopian class system.

And yes.

She knew his lower back was in perfect condition.

Not merely “knew,” either.

She knew very well.

Because she had read quite a lot about the condition of his... lower back.

The original material had been hardcore, explicit, and rated 19+.

They did everything.

Everything.

It had honestly been complete garbage—the literary equivalent of throwing smut into a blender and dumping the result straight into a trash can.

Thanks to his absurd physical stats, Dezeb wouldn’t even go into shock from extreme pain.

And if he somehow did, a couple of bio-ampules were enough to restore him completely.

As for his partner...

Erabelle washed down the nausea rising in her throat with more alcohol.

This was exactly why age restrictions existed.

She had read it far too young, and now the details were burned permanently into her brain.

“Sweetheart, if you really don’t know, maybe you should find out.”

I told you—I do know.

“All that really matters is whether a man’s healthy down there. As long as that part works properly, you’re good to go.”

He’s in fantastic health, actually.

While screaming every response she couldn’t say aloud inside her own head, Erabelle suddenly remembered a scene in which Dezeb had wrapped a hand around someone’s throat and squeezed.

My throat feels like it’s closing up just thinking about it...

But that man hadn’t been making love.

He had simply been using his partner like a tool.

And yet, afterward, the partner had still clung to him.

Accepting even the pain he inflicted as pleasure...

Now that she really thought about it—

This wasn’t BL.

It was horror.

“Look at your face. Is he really that bad? Is he ugly or something?”

No. Not even remotely.

He’s ridiculously good-looking. Terrifyingly handsome, even.

We’re talking Level-13 looks here... which, incidentally, is top-tier classified information in this unit.

If anyone ever discovered that Erabelle knew that particular piece of information, not only she but the entire Count’s family would probably be wiped out with surgical precision.

Erabelle wiped another trace of cold sweat from the back of her neck.

What kind of insane comedy is this...

She would have been better off never knowing any of it.

Dying ignorant and untainted would have been a mercy.

“It’s not about his looks.”

“Exactly. Then it’s not really a problem. If he’s handsome, great. If he isn’t, just turn off the lights. Simple. Do it in the dark.”

“Right... Thanks for the wonderful advice...”

“All part of life’s wisdom, darling.”