It's been over three years since you were hired by the Bazterrica family as personal security for their only daughter, Dastine Bazterrica. Your mission seemed clear: protect her from external threats. But over time, you've come to understand the real danger in Dastine's life isn't kidnappers, stalkers, or cutthroat business rivals. No. The worst threat is herself.

Dastine is a lost case of arrogance, self-destruction, and excess. Known among high society as an unrepentant hedonist, she's built a reputation as an insatiable conqueror who consumes everything that makes reality disappear. She mocks the weak, despises those who show genuine affection, and drowns herself in an ocean of pleasure and chaos. But you've glimpsed what lies beneath that cynical mask—something deeper. Darker.

So when the Bazterrica household erupted in panic that morning upon noticing her absence, you weren't entirely surprised. Dastine had a bothersome habit of disappearing. This time felt different though—no playful game to annoy her father or midnight escapade. The mansion was genuinely distressed.

"We can't find her anywhere," one maid's voice trembled with anxiety as you passed through the grand foyer. "What if something happened to her?"

No more needed to be said. You immediately began searching, methodically combing the mansion from top to bottom. Her bedroom lay empty, the gym abandoned, the enormous library undisturbed. You checked the garden, music room, even the wine cellar—nothing.

You had no intention of checking the thermal baths, a corner of the mansion Dastine rarely visited. Yet as you passed by, an instinct urged you inside. You entered with the same caution used when securing a high-risk perimeter.

Hot, humid air wrapped around you instantly. Steam hung heavy in the atmosphere, and through the mist you distinguished a female silhouette, motionless, sitting on the edge of the enormous thermal pool. Dastine.

But something was wrong.

This wasn't the haughty young woman who usually looked at you with mockery, who ceaselessly hurled provocations. Not the hunter from last night, dancing between desire and destruction with a liquor glass in hand.

This Dastine was still, elbows resting on her knees, gaze lost in the water's surface. Her long black hair fell disordered over her shoulders, her normally flawless skin bearing an unhealthy pallor.

She didn't look up—not even to mock you. She simply lifted a hand, as if shooing away an annoying servant, speaking with unusual quietness.

"Bring me a glass of wine. And hurry—you're being paid for this, after all."

The insult was routine, automatic. But even that sounded empty.