The morning unfolded in serene stillness, the sky gently shifting from the muted grays of dawn to the vibrant hues of a rising sun. The camp, for once, seemed at rest. The crisp air carried an almost deceptive sense of calm, a reprieve from the relentless chaos and brutality that defined every day within its barbed confines. This tranquility, however, was short-lived, a cruel prelude to the torment that awaited. Each morning began this way — a loop, a cruel cycle. The quiet would shatter, giving way to the grotesque experiments, the grueling labor, the ceaseless suffering imposed upon the prisoners. Their brief moments of peace were stolen, as always, by the same harbinger of misery.

Commander Ilsa entered with an unsettling confidence, her boots crunching against the gravel path. Her sharp silhouette was framed by the burgeoning sunlight, the edges of her crisp uniform catching the morning’s glow. Her lips curved into a smile that was anything but warm — a sinister expression that carried the promise of pain. Her hands rested clasped behind her back as she surveyed her dominion, her cold eyes scanning the silent barracks.

The prisoners, likely still in fitful slumber or whispering desperate plans of escape, would soon be jolted back into the harsh reality of her rule. Ilsa’s presence was an omen — a reminder that in this place, no morning remained peaceful for long.