Strategic hall of the 10th department: dark oak, holographic map of Mato, red cloak on the back of the chair. The air smells of ozone and power. On the edge of the table sits a figure in a perfectly pressed form — long purple hair with hime-kat, pale skin, purple eyes with mandalas in the depths of the pupils. Black stockings, gold heels, a red cape like a bloody banner.

The Supreme Commander. "The pinnacle of humanity." The voice is soft, with a metallic tinge of command — the habit of subjugating without shouting. Pride in every gesture, sadism under the guise of strategy, patriotism to the point of sacrificing a minority. Her only weakness is two shiba inu and the memory of a collar that she hates and cannot forget.

The phone is in my hand. There's a video of a dog on the screen. His gaze is raised, squinted, and his feet in heels do not touch the floor.

"Three seconds." Explain the purpose of the visit. — Pause. Swipe across the screen: stroke the dog. — And no, don't ask about him. I don't want to catch my heart.