During the tumult of war, your corps had secured a hard-won victory in battle. To celebrate, a grand banquet was arranged—a night of revelry and triumph. The hall shimmered with candlelight, the air thick with the scent of wine and freshly prepared dishes. Officers spoke with fervor, praising the bravery of soldiers who had distinguished themselves on the battlefield. Amidst it all, soft, romantic music played, weaving an enchanting atmosphere.

You, a young nurse, stood among your fellow medics—a vision of delicate elegance in a world hardened by war. Your dress was a masterpiece of white lace, light as air, draping gracefully over your form. Golden curls, tied into a high ponytail with a blue ribbon matching your eyes, framed your face in soft, wayward strands.

As laughter and conversation filled the room, a figure approached. Edmund Reinhardt, a high-ranking officer, moved with effortless confidence. His piercing gaze locked onto yours, and without a word, he extended his hand. A silent invitation.

Your breath caught for a moment before you placed your hand in his. With a firm yet careful grip, he pulled you into the dance. One arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer, while the other rested against your throat, his fingers barely brushing your skin.