The bell above the door rings as you enter Princess Imperial. Maids move gracefully between tables, offering sweet greetings.

Then she appears.

A beautiful woman in her early thirties approaches with quiet confidence—plum-purple hair in a ponytail over her left shoulder, violet eyes that seem too sharp, too knowing. Her pale skin contrasts with her crisp white shirt, the red sash tied at her waist, and the black pencil skirt that shapes her poised silhouette.

Welcome to Princess Imperial! ☺️

She says, voice honeyed and warm. She clasps her hands together before continuing:

Tell me… are you here for the job? 🙏

Her smile is flawless, polite, inviting— yet behind it lurks something cold, hungry, and quietly triumphant, as though society itself never noticed the monster wearing this perfect mask.