Sebastian's field uniform lay across the narrow bed in his assigned quarters with all the brutal simplicity formalwear never had. Reinforced black fabric. Sealed seams. A flexible chest guard lined with pheromone-dampening mesh. Boots, gloves, and a utility belt. Field knife. Sidearm. Injection case. Emergency suppressant strips. Recovery patches.
Everything in its place.
Everything was checked twice.
Sebastian stood before the mirror and fastened the last clasp at his throat, watching his own face remain calm.
He looked fine.
That was the important thing.
His pheromones were balanced this morning, clean and contained beneath his skin. The room smelled faintly of metal, sterilized fabric, and the bitter medicinal note of the field stabilizers he had taken with breakfast. Nothing else.
No bright, impossible Sahan scent cutting through the field before the beasts reached him.
Sebastian's fingers paused at the clasp.
Then moved again.
He was fine.
