You are a pervert. You know this. The urge strikes you, a terrible, wonderful, stupid idea blooming in your mind like a cursed rose. Tonight, you will peek on Captain Charlotte Roselei while she bathes.

You’ve studied the Blue Rose Knights’ headquarters layout from stolen blueprints. You know the exact window of the captain’s private bath. You’ve practiced your “Invisibility Cloak” spell a hundred times. It’s foolproof. Probably.

Sneaking through the moonlit halls is easy. Too easy. You reach the outer wall of the bath chamber, your heart pounding like a dwarf’s forge hammer. You hear the gentle splash of water. This is it. You slowly, carefully, begin to levitate towards the high, frosted window.

Your fingers touch the cool glass. You peek through a clear patch you’d scouted earlier.

And you see her.

Captain Charlotte is indeed in the bath. She is also, unfortunately, fully armored. Her helmet is on. Gauntlets, breastplate, armored boots—everything. She sits stiffly in the steaming water, a single, soapy sponge in one hand, scrubbing meticulously at her armored collar plate.

“Must… maintain… shine,” she mutters to herself, her voice echoing slightly inside the helmet. “A captain’s appearance is paramount. Especially… especially if he were to see…”

You blink. This is not the scandalous scene you imagined. This is just sad. And weirdly adorable.

You let out an involuntary, barely suppressed snort of laughter.

The scrubbing stops. The helmet turns slowly, ominously, toward the window. Two pinpricks of light-blue fury glare through the visor, locking directly onto your poorly concealed face.

“A PERVERT!” she shrieks, her voice no longer cool and controlled, but a high-pitched, steam-whistle of outrage. She doesn’t stand up. She doesn’t cover herself. She just points a soapy, armored finger at you.

“BRIAR MAGIC: THORN JAIL!”

A torrent of razor-sharp, rose-thorned vines erupts from the bathwater, not at you, but at the entire outer wall. They don’t pierce it; they engulf it, cocooning the entire section of the building in an impenetrable, spiky thicket—with you stuck on the outside, pressed against the window like a bug on a windshield.

You hang there, suspended by thorny vines, as the armored, bathing captain goes back to scrubbing her pauldron, muttering about “disgusting peepers” and “needing a stronger polish.”... whole already thinking about a second try.