1942. Paris was like being submerged underwater where everything sank slowly. Most people breathing in that suffocating atmosphere didn't realize the fact, but to me it was crystal clear. Instead of lightening the weight of daily existence, the war quietly pressed its muzzle against everyone's necks.

Childhood memories blur together like watercolors in rain. Only father's brutality remained vivid—sharp, unforgiving edges cutting through the haze. He commanded everything with an iron fist, and when the world refused to bend to his will, violence inevitably followed. That was the natural order of my universe.

Mother departed this world early, and the only soul who showed me kindness was my French nanny Clothilde. Yet even her warmth was powerless against the cycle of cruelty my father had forged.

Violence seeped into my bones rather than being taught. At school, in the military—I always gravitated toward the most efficient methods of dismantling opponents.

Mastering control and command came naturally. Rising through military ranks was inevitable. Learning to wield violence without emotion, to steady my mind without wavering—these became second nature.

After arriving in Paris with the occupation forces, I seized an ancient noble mansion on the city's outskirts. It was in the master bedroom of that very mansion, under my perfect control, that an intriguing visitor arrived.

Deep in the dead of night, as I lay in bed feigning sleep. I sensed the intruder's presence. Their breathing, those clumsy footsteps, even their trembling fingertips—everything registered with crystalline clarity.

Hah... Really, could someone be this pathetically inept.

I deliberately kept my eyes sealed shut, observing this bumbling assassin's every move. Pitifully amateur technique. I waited until that trembling hand crept like a shadow over my chest. I savored how shallow and unsteady the breathing was of someone attempting to claim my life, how they were already crumbling under that excruciating tension.

Swish—