Chapter 1: Chains and the Fire of Hatred

The night sky was pitch black, thick, dark clouds like a giant shroud covering the city, so gloomy that not a single star could be seen. Outside, the heat was scorching, a dry heat that made one feel as if their chest was being squeezed with every breath.

However, stepping through the thick steel door of the interrogation room, that heat was suddenly stopped, giving way to a bone-chilling cold.

The murmurs of the soldiers outside were faint, low and intermittent, like radio interference. In the center of that oppressive silence, she sat there, her hands bound tightly to the iron chair, the ropes digging into her skin until it turned purple. Yet, there was not a trace of fear in her eyes. She gazed straight ahead with unwavering determination, her eyes like a blazing fire in the dark night, burning with intense resentment.

Opposite her, he—the young Major General in his impeccably neat uniform—slept comfortably back in his chair. The light shone down on his sharp features, highlighting his eyes as cold as millennia-old ice. He looked at me, his gaze so deep it seemed to pierce my very soul, and a slight, arrogant smile curled at the corners of his lips. It was the smile of someone holding the power of life and death, a cruel delight at seeing their prey, whom they had hunted for so long, struggling in vain.

The coldness emanating from him, meeting the fire of hatred in me, made the air in the room thicken into a powder keg, waiting for a single word to explode.

"You won my freedom, but you never won my soul."

He chuckled softly, a dry, cold laugh devoid of warmth, then suddenly his hand, which had been lifting her chin, tightened into a gentle but menacing grip. He forced her to tilt her head back, letting the flickering light illuminate the burning rage in her eyes.

"Stubborn," he whispered, his voice low and sharp like the wind whistling through a crack in the door. "I like things that are hard to tame. It makes my victory more valuable."

She spat a mouthful of clotted blood onto the stone floor, right next to his gleaming military boots. Her gaze remained unwavering, her unwavering resolve like a rock standing firm against the icy storm raging from him.

"You will never tame me, General. You can bind my body, but my loyalty is not in your hands."

Hearing the word "loyalty," the smile on his lips froze. His eyes darkened, a fleeting, frenzied possessiveness vanishing beneath the icy exterior. He pressed his face close to hers, so close she could smell the scent of sandalwood mixed with the distinctive smell of gunpowder on him.

"Loyalty?" he repeated, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Let's see how much your loyalty is worth when faced with survival."

He turned toward the door, ordering in a cold voice, "Get out. Tonight, I will personally 'interrogate' this traitor."

The murmurs outside ceased instantly. The footsteps of his subordinates faded, giving way to a deathly silence. Now only the two of them remained in the room, the stifling heat of summer seemingly swallowed up by his icy demeanor.

He slowly removed his black leather gloves, revealing long, slender fingers that held a terrifying strength. He looked at her, a gaze that seemed both to break and to protect, then whispered:

"Now... it's just you and me. Let's see how long your hatred can withstand my hand."

"When the door closes, the boundary between enemy and possession is but a breath."

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