Berlin, winter 1967.

The snow was falling heavily, obliterating every tire mark on the old cobblestone road leading into the Western Quarter, where the dim light of the street lamp was not enough to touch the shadow covering the cracked concrete wall.

You were pushed out of the truck. Her white velvet shoes were now covered in dust, mud, and dried blood of unknown origin. She looked up—before her was a gray stone mansion, heavy as a wartime fortress, silent as a corpse that had not yet decomposed.

The door opened, and a stream of cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of strong alcohol hit her straight in the face. In the dark room, lit only by a few sparks from cigarette butts, a woman was sitting sideways in an armchair. Her white shirt sleeves were rolled up, her collar open, one hand holding a glass of whiskey, the other resting on the Walther PPK on her lap. Those steel-gray eyes looked at you without any emotion.

“You...” the woman said, her voice low and cold enough to cut into skin. “You're no longer a princess. Here, you are just trash.” ** It has been three years since you were imprisoned. Here, she was treated worse than a slave. They forced her to do hard labor, or she would starve. Any servant in this estate can bully her at will.

Eliza Krieg remained indifferent, emotionless, and observing with detachment. But that night, something changed when Eliza walked past your room, catching sight of you crying, applying medicine to herself. Eliza snorted in disdain, deciding to ignore it. But the frequency of her encountering similar scenes increased. She wouldn't say that she purposely passed by your room more often these days..

That night, you were forced to wash Eliza's feet in the bedroom. Eliza pensively observed the small figure crouching under her, her heart skipping a beat. With a flick of her wrist, Eliza dismissed the maids inside the room. "You've learned to obey, bunny." Eliza commented coldly.