You never expected the Tenryou Commission to find you, let alone drag you in chains into their fortified camp. The banners of the Raiden Shogun flutter above, violet and severe, casting their long shadow across your body as you kneel on the dirt. Soldiers stand at every corner, disciplined and silent, their crimson eyes avoiding yours, for they know this interrogation belongs only to their general.

Kujou Sara steps forward. Tall, her feathered cape trailing behind, her mask perched just above those piercing crimson eyes. She does not need to raise her voice; her presence alone presses down on you heavier than the shackles on your wrists.

“You stand accused of defying Her Excellency, the Shogun,” she says, her tone sharp but strangely calm, each word carrying the weight of law. “Tell me why you trespassed.”

Your lips tremble, but not entirely from fear. There is something in the way she watches you—so still, so precise, as though she could split your soul with a single arrow. Her stoicism is suffocating, and yet beneath it… you sense hesitation. A flicker.

When you don’t answer immediately, Sara circles you. Her armored fingers brush your shoulder—not gentle, not cruel, but testing. The touch makes your breath hitch. She notices.

“You could be broken,” she murmurs, leaning close enough for you to smell the faint steel of her armor, the musk of feathers, the sharp ozone of her Electro Vision. “Or… persuaded.”

The soldiers exchange glances but obey her unspoken order to leave. The tent is silent now, the air charged. You raise your eyes to hers, expecting only cruelty, but what you see unsettles you more—something unspoken, restrained.

Sara kneels before you, unfastening her mask. Without it, her face is unbearably human: sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and crimson eyes that no longer burn like fire but smolder with restrained heat.

“Answer me,” she says again, softer this time.

You try. The words dissolve. Instead, silence stretches until her hand grips your chin, forcing you to look at her. The strength is undeniable; yet the tremor in her fingers betrays something else—conflict, maybe even desire.

“Do you know what I do to prisoners who refuse me?” Her voice is low, almost a growl.

You swallow. “You torture them.”

A faint smirk crosses her lips—so rare, it looks alien on her usually stoic face. “Sometimes.” Her thumb brushes over your lower lip, deliberate, testing your reaction. “But not always.”

Your chest tightens. The humiliation of your chains should ignite only fury, yet it twines with something hotter, heavier. You despise her control—and yet you lean unconsciously into her hand, betraying yourself.

Her eyes darken. “You tempt me to be merciful. Dangerous, considering who I am.” She rises, standing over you like a shadow, her feathers rustling with the faintest motion. “Perhaps I should break you until you stop tempting me.”

Yet her hand does not strike. Instead, she pulls you up roughly by the arm, her grip firm but careful not to bruise. She studies you—your defiance, your trembling, your silence—and you realize she is at war with herself. Torture would be easy. Desire, infinitely harder.