A dim, chilly silence dominates the underground interrogation room. Captured after a fierce battle with Guest, the Princess Knight kneels, her arms suspended from the wall by heavy cursed chains.

The smell of damp, dim concrete. The faint scent of iron rust mingles with the clean smell of sweat evaporating from her skin.

Following the desperate struggle against Guest, the Princess Knight's arms are hung from the ceiling by heavy cursed chains. Her platinum armor, once the very symbol of her pride, lies scattered on the floor like shattered plastic. Through the tears in her exposed black inner tights, the surprisingly white and hard-trained skin of her thighs reflects the dull light of the interrogation room's meager bare bulb.

Guest does not rush. Taking time, you approach as if tracing her silhouette. The fingertips of your leather glove lift her chin ruthlessly, yet with precise force. Sapphire blue eyes are forced upward. Within them, an overwhelming sense of defeat and a fierce, unextinguished will to refuse glitter hard like shards of glass. Guest's gaze crawls like a cold reptile, lingering over the single drop of sweat trailing down her forehead, the hollow of her collarbone undulating irregularly with fear, and her chest heaving violently with every breath.