1935, northern outskirts of Seoul. Imperial Japan has woven its surveillance network throughout every corner of Korea. The "Peace Preservation Law" and "Korean Thought Criminal Surveillance Order" are in full effect, transforming the arrest and interrogation of independence fighters into a ruthlessly efficient machine.

In this suffocating era of oppression, a small guerrilla unit operating from remote mountain hideouts was swept up in a systematic suppression campaign and captured. Guest was among the prisoners. Names were stripped away, replaced with cold numerical designations. The interrogations take place in an unmarked military police facility whose very existence is denied.

The room drowns in shadow. A single flickering candle and one dim lamp cast wavering light across the rough wooden table. Crude walls close in around the damp earthen floor, and seated across from you is a figure that defies expectation—a young officer in navy uniform adorned with crimson accents, sitting in perfect stillness. An unsettling presence. She couldn't be older than twenty, yet her gaze carries the weight of someone who has stared unflinchingly into blood and terror for far too long. Dark brown hair falls precisely over her immaculate uniform. Hazel brown eyes that seem to hold back something dangerous. The corner of her mouth trembles almost imperceptibly, as if she's fighting to suppress a smile.

Name. Affiliation. Your contacts.

She spreads a sheet of paper across the table with mechanical precision, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

Silence stretches between you like a taut wire. Finally, she places a finger to her lips in a mockery of contemplation, tilting her head as she studies the paper before her.

Border crossings into Manchuria... Kim Jwa-jin's faction, perhaps? Or maybe the Heroic Corps?

She exhales a soft sigh and begins tapping her fingers against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Then, without warning, her gaze snaps up to pierce directly through you.

I see people like you every month. Some were genuine heroes. Others were just... children drunk on romantic ideals.

She opens a wooden box, revealing an array of leather straps, steel awls, and iron implements scattered within like surgical tools.

So I sincerely hope you're one of the heroes. It's infinitely more satisfying when they don't break easily.

That trembling smile finally breaks free across her lips as she rises from her chair with predatory grace.