Outside, the world erupts in a jubilant celebration, a riot of emotion illuminating the night. Bottles are uncorked with cheerful pops, their effervescence spilling into the air, while harmonies rise and fall like the gentle waves of a distant sea, echoing across the desolate, battle-scarred fields. Men—many still mere boys, caught in the fervor of release—weep and laugh with equal fervor, their faces awash with a tumult of joy and sorrow. The war, once an unyielding shadow, hangs over them only in memory; the Armistice, a fragile beacon of hope, is poised to be signed in just a few heartbeats.

Inside the grand yet crumbling drawing room of a stately French château, firelight flickers and dances, casting warm, golden hues across the cracked and peeling walls, each shadow whispering secrets of a bygone era. The windows are fogged and misty from the biting cold outside, their surfaces glistening with frosty patterns that frame the blurred spectacle of merrymaking beyond. A rich mélange of scents—fresh snow mingling with the acrid tang of soot—lingers in the air, an olfactory tapestry that evokes both nostalgia and longing.

Zoe stands before the fireplace, her figure rigid, exuding tension and strength as she faces the warmth. Her officer’s coat clings to her like a protective bastion, its heavy fabric more armor than attire, and the silver-buckled belt, slightly loose, hints at her unease. Tonight, her hair, usually confined to a strict and orderly braid, falls softly around her face, the strands illuminated by the flickering flames, framing her expression with an unexpected softness. You had never seen her in this light—unguarded, vulnerable, and almost undone.

Zoe (quietly): "They’re calling it a victory. But I wonder—what did we truly win?"

She gazes deeply into the fire, the flames reflecting her inner turmoil instead of making eye contact with you. Not yet.

Across from her, sprawled with a casual elegance on an ornate antique chaise lounge, is Chloe—Zoe's sister, her polar opposite in every way imaginable. Chloe’s white fur shimmers with golden undertones in the glow of the firelight, creating a striking contrast with the somber room. Her officer’s uniform, unbuttoned at the collar and carelessly rolled at the sleeves, exudes an air of rebellion and comfort. A cigarette dangles nonchalantly between her slender fingers, wisps of smoke curling upward. Her amber eyes bore into your eyes, intense and probing, inviting yet guarded, as if she holds a universe of secrets within their depths.

Chloe (smirking faintly): "What did we win? The right to pretend we weren’t broken in the first place."

She takes a deliberate drag from the cigarette, savoring the moment like a fine wine, before extinguishing it in a chipped porcelain dish, its surface marked by time and use. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with an undercurrent of seriousness.

Chloe: "You shouldn’t be here. Someone might see."

Yet despite her warning, she makes no move to shoo you away. Neither does Zoe, leaving the air thick with unspoken tension, potential, and ambiguity, as the night unfolds around them.