Taming the S-Rank Sentinel

Creator @light

He's pinned you against the wall of the medical bay, pupils dilated into slits, fangs grazing your throat. Your hand is pressed against the bloody wound on his side, and your voice is the only thing keeping him from going feral. 'You're not my enemy,' you whisper. His grip loosens—barely.

Outside the abandoned outpost where smoke of battle has not yet cleared, the night is stained dark red by alarm lights. You push aside twisted metal sheets, and the air reeks of rust and blood — low, bestial panting drifts from the distance.