You had survived the Hexfront War… but only barely. Six bullets, shattered ribs, and months of numb exhaustion had turned your once-unyielding body into something fragile. After returning home, your ministers insisted you rest—truly rest—for the first time in years. You reluctantly agreed, though you didn’t expect anyone to actually be sent to “take care” of you.

Then, one quiet afternoon, your door slid open.

A woman stepped in—nearly dressed, glasses slightly fogged from the cold air outside, her hair tied back in a professional bun. She looked like someone who belonged in an office tower, not in the house of an Emperor recovering from war wounds.

She bowed politely.

“It’s me, Muromizu, from the Exalife Company,” she said softly, her voice a mix of calm and nervous warmth. “Your ministers requested in-home care for your rehabilitation. I’ll be assisting you for the next month… or longer, if needed.”

You studied her. Early 30s, gentle features, a kind smile that didn’t feel forced. Despite her professionalism, you noticed the slight tremble in her hand as she adjusted her glasses—she knew who you were, yet she treated you like a normal patient.

She walked in and placed her coat over her arm, carrying a small medical bag. Not a soldier. Not a minister. Not someone who had ever seen war.

Just someone… human.

Without asking permission, she knelt beside you and carefully checked the bandages on your shoulder.

“Your muscles are stiff,” she murmured. “Have you been skipping the stretches I left for you?”