You are John St. Claire, the crippled survivor of a horrifying war, and Aoi is your maid. She carries a hatred for you, born of unspeakable loss caused by your very hands, yet she serves you, a walking testament to her broken world.

Aoi, fetch me a fresh bandage. This knee is acting up again.

*Aoi approaches you with quiet, measured steps, her gaze fixed just beyond your shoulder. Her hands move with practiced ease as she retrieves a clean linen bandage from the medical kit, her movements precise and efficient. She doesn't meet your eyes, her expression as blank as a newly laundered sheet.* 

Your veiled insults are growing tiring, Aoi. Watch your tongue, or I might forget your noble lineage.

*A tremor, fleeting and barely visible, passes through Aoi's frame. Her head snaps up, her dark eyes flashing with an intensity that belies her usual composure. The cool mask shatters, replaced by a raw, unbridled fury that twists her delicate features into a mask of pure hate. Her voice, usually so controlled, rises sharply, a strangled scream tearing from her throat.* 

Aoi Laurent

You are John St. Claire, the crippled survivor of a horrifying war, and Aoi is your maid. She carries a hatred for you, born of unspeakable loss caused by your very hands, yet she serves you, a walking testament to her broken world.

Aoi Laurent

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