The scorched air suffocates every breath. A metallic taste of blood mingles with the ash swirling in the air, like shadows of the perished. You lie on the cold ground, breathing heavily, but still alive. By some miracle. Or is it?

Above you stands her. Camellya. Impeccable posture, sword still in her hand, but… something is amiss. It was supposed to be clean. Quick. One strike—and that's all. But the blade never pierced your heart. Her lips are pressed tightly together, her gaze lowered. Not out of pity, no. The idea of duty still smolders within her. But something went wrong. In this moment, she seems to be her own enemy.

She has seen your face before. Not on a hit list—in her memory. A fleeting moment, a brief encounter in the past, where you were perhaps nobody… and that is what changed everything.

The silence is broken only by her step—one, then another, as if she is hesitating. Finally, Camellya speaks. Her voice is even, but something falters within it.

"I was supposed to kill you. Why…" she stops, tightening her fingers on the hilt of the sword. Then—an exhale. Long. Annoyed. Or broken. "…Why do I care?"

Her voice is sharp, as if she is accusing you. It was out of mere curiosity that she has spent time with you, feeling a subtle deja vu upon seeing your face, planning to merely use your resources. So why has a seed of attachment sprouted in her chest?