Genowefa leaned against a marble column, shrouded in the shadows of one of the dimly lit corners of the ballroom. Her gaze drifted lazily across the sea of guests, their movements a seamless waltz of elegance that failed to stir even the faintest admiration in her. The music, though undeniably beautiful, grated on her nerves with its cloying monotony, and the grandeur of the evening—gilded chandeliers casting warm light over silk gowns and sparkling jewelry, laughter echoing off marble walls—was suffocating, an opulence that grew heavier with every passing minute.

"Tsk. And this is what they pay me more for than a week of chasing down some two-bit thief?" she thought, jaw tightening. She despised assignments like this. Babysitting a spoiled princess? Give her a chase, a brawl, a mission that made her blood sing and adrenaline race. But the pay was generous—too generous to refuse—and Genowefa couldn't afford to turn down work, even if it meant enduring the stifling charade of a ball that had no use for her presence beyond her invisible vigilance.

Her eyes landed on Princess Louise—young, striking in a sapphire gown, yet insufferably pampered in her estimation. She stood at the heart of it all, a queen bee encircled by admirers who laughed a little too eagerly at her insipid jokes. Genowefa looked away, the faint scent of expensive perfume and champagne cloying in her nostrils. She briefly considered slipping out and waiting by the exit, but the thought was fleeting. Even the most tedious jobs demanded professionalism, and her pride wouldn't allow her to falter.

A flicker of movement caught her eye—a woman slipping into the hall with a quiet grace that bordered on ghostly. The crowd, masked in ornate disguises per the evening's theme, seemed oblivious to the newcomer. Yet this woman's presence felt... different. Her black Colombina mask framed her eyes, an understated design that exuded an aura of restrained menace. There was a fluidity to her steps, light yet deliberate, that prickled at Genowefa's instincts like a blade pressed to skin.

"Who the hell is that?"

The stranger's attention bypassed the crowd entirely, fixing itself on the princess. Louise, true to form, noticed her immediately. Her head tilted like a butterfly drawn to an alluring bloom, her manners and guards forgotten as she moved toward her with a newfound purpose.

Genowefa exhaled, long and slow, pinching the bridge of her nose. The last thing she wanted was to intervene. She could interrupt their exchange now, but instead, she let herself linger in the shadows, watching. Her focus, however, veered toward the woman's mask rather than the princess. Memories of rumors—half whispers about a phantom thief known only as "Angel"—stirred uneasily in her mind. A figure of legend, they said, one who could vanish into air and elude even the sharpest of pursuers. Genowefa had always dismissed such tales. "An untraceable villain? Please."

And yet... there was something about this woman that set her nerves on edge. A calculated stillness. A self-possession so precise it felt unnatural, like a coiled spring waiting to release.

Her musings were interrupted as Louise drained yet another glass of wine, the crystal goblet catching the light. Her cheeks flushed, and her movements grew increasingly unsteady, her laughter louder and less controlled than before.

"Great," she muttered under her breath, the sound barely audible over the music. "Just what I need—a drunk princess." With a resigned sigh, she began edging closer, careful not to provoke Louise's ire by being too conspicuous, her boots making no sound on the marble floor.

But then the masked woman leaned in, whispering something into Louise's ear. The princess giggled—a high, girlish sound—and allowed herself to be led toward the corridor. Alarm flared in Genowefa's chest like a match struck in dry tinder. She followed, her steps light and deliberate, keeping just far enough to remain unseen. The palace's labyrinthine hallways provided cover in their dark corners, but they also heightened her unease, the air growing cooler and damper the farther they ventured from the ballroom.

The woman led Louise to a room and opened the door, gesturing for her to enter first. She laughed, her voice loose and unguarded, and stumbled inside. The woman cast a final glance down the hallway before closing the door. That last look—piercing, calculating—made Genowefa's pulse quicken, as if the woman had known she was there all along.

Hidden in the shadows, Genowefa waited until the door clicked shut before moving swiftly. She didn't knock. She pushed the door open in a single, decisive motion, the hinges protesting faintly.

The scene inside froze her for a heartbeat. The princess lay sprawled on the bed, unconscious, her golden hair spilling over silk pillows like liquid sunlight. The masked woman stood over her, a syringe glinting in her hand, its contents freshly emptied into Louise's arm.

Genowefa's gun was out before she even realized it, her aim steady despite the cold fury rising in her chest, her gloved finger resting lightly on the trigger.

"Hah. 'Angel,' right?" Her voice was mocking, but her tone was taut with barely restrained anger, the words slicing through the silent room. "Drop the syringe. Step away. And maybe, just maybe, I won't put a bullet through you before you can explain yourself."