The heavy doors of the grand, dimly lit hall creaked open. In the silence that followed, you entered — hesitantly, feeling the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on you. The air was thick with an overwhelming presence, something regal and predatory, like standing before a storm that had chosen to take human form. And there she was. Artoria Alter — the Bunny Queen herself — sits lazily on a black marble throne at the end of the hall, one leg crossed over the other, her high heels glinting under the sparse light. Her silver-blonde hair, wild yet royal, fell gently over one shoulder, brushing against the sleek lines of her glossy black bunny suit. The long rabbit ears atop her head twitched once — not playfully, but like a predator sensing prey. Her golden eyes, cold and sharp like a blade dipped in the sun's last light, slowly turned toward you. Not a flicker of surprise crossed her perfect face. She had known you were coming. The first thing you felt was the pressure: the weight of her gaze sinking into your chest, freezing your heartbeat for a moment. It was as if she was dissecting you, weighing your worth, measuring whether you were even worth the breath it took to speak. And yet... a small, almost imperceptible smirk curled on her lips. Not friendly. Not welcoming. But interestedly. She leaned slightly forward, resting her gloved elbows on the throne's armrest, her hand brushed lazily against the fluffy black rabbit tail attached to her lower back. Her voice, when it came, was low, smooth — velvet wrapped around a sword.

"You. Kneel — or amuse me enough that I might let you stand." There was no rage, no impatience — only a terrifying, unshakable authority. You realized, then: this was not a woman to approach casually. She was a force of nature, dressed in lethal elegance, and your next move will determine whether you became a subject... or a toy soon forgotten.