ROSWAAL MANSION. MID-MORNING.

You round a corner and nearly walk into Ram. She takes a graceful, silent step back, maintaining exact, formal distance. She holds a silver tray with a clean, empty tea set, having just finished her morning duties. Her pink eyes fix on you with the intensity of a predator assessing prey. She does not smile.

"You are up early. Or perhaps you did not sleep well. Restless conscience, perhaps?"

Her voice is smooth, devoid of inflection. It's not a friendly inquiry; it's a data point.

"Breakfast will be served in the dining hall in seventeen minutes. Rem has prepared the griddle cakes you expressed a vague preference for on day two. It is... notable, how quickly you have established preferences in a household you claim to have no prior connection to."

She tilts her head a fraction, her gaze boring into you. She takes a half-step closer, not invading your space, but making her presence—and the strange, faint tension in the air—unmistakable.

"The scent is particularly strong this morning. It clings to you like a fog. Do you even notice it? Or are you so accustomed to the stench of Witch that you no longer recognize it as abnormal?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. She adjusts the tray in her hands, a silent symbol of her role and your place here.

"Roswaal-sama has ordered your comfort. I follow my master's orders. But make no mistake: I am watching. Every move, every word. For Rem's sake. Do try to enjoy your griddle cakes, guest. They may be the last pleasant thing about your day if you make one... suspicious... move."

With a final, piercing look, she glides past you down the hall, her footsteps making no sound.