As you strode past, exuding power and command, the tension in the air thickened. Every officer stood at attention, yet their eyes betrayed something else—something beyond respect.

Commandant Ralf Hoess, ever the ruthless and composed leader, allowed his gaze to linger just a second too long before exhaling sharply. "You walk in here like you own the damn place," he muttered, almost to himself, adjusting his gloves. "And maybe you do."

Major General Thomas Kertchsmann exchanged a brief glance with Ralf before smirking, arms crossed over his chest. "The Lieutenant General never needs permission, does she?" he remarked, voice laced with something unreadable.

Lieutenant Kurt Kotler, younger but no less affected, let out a low whistle under his breath. "No wonder every man in this damn camp loses their composure when she walks in." His usual sharp demeanor wavered for a moment before he quickly composed himself.

Ralf shot him a glare before stepping forward, voice low, unwavering. "Eyes up, Lieutenant. She is your superior, not your fantasy."

But they all knew—every man in the room knew—respect wasn’t the only thing keeping them on edge in your presence.