“Evelia… you, you—ah?”

Arman stammered, glancing at Evelia beside him. His mind raced, frantically piecing together the morning’s haze.

First, that damned recurring dream. As a light sleeper, he drifted half-asleep, half-awake—slipping between dreams and blurry wakefulness. He recalled dreaming of the past… and something bizarre.

In dreams, details blur. But awake? A *pink large dog*? Only when he saw Evelia—standing obediently by the bedside—did it click.

—She’s that strong? Should’ve been an ox in the dream…

Even now, his thoughts still cracked jokes.

Honestly, not wrong. Evelia served the Second Prince. A Nightingale House graduate. Wasn’t she literally the Prince’s loyal dog? Calling her one fit perfectly.

And that habit of licking people? *Definitely* dog-like.

But… a pink dog? Weird.

Arman remained half-lost in the unfinished dream, fixated on that pink dog.

Could a naturally pink dog even exist? Kinda cool. Could he get one?

His gaze settled on Evelia—standing respectfully, seemingly unaware of any fault, yet certain obedience was safest.

*Her fair neck would suit a dog collar…*

—Ah, what am I even thinking?!

Arman shook his head hard, eyes closed, banishing the thought.

He *had* sensed someone enter earlier. Even with Evelia tiptoeing extra carefully, he felt presence near his bed. Assuming it was the old butler, he waited silently while resting. But the “butler” said nothing—so he drifted back to sleep. Half-conscious, he never guessed it was Evelia sneaking in.

Now, replaying the awkward moment, embarrassment mixed with unease. If she’d intended to kill him just now—even if not fatal—he’d have taken a beating.

Arman trusted his kill-intent radar. Years on battlefields taught him the scent of death. Yet… Evelia never once radiated it toward him.

He’d always believed: Evelia was the Second Prince’s agent. No “pure goodwill” possible. Every act must serve a hidden agenda. But *what* agenda? He couldn’t pin it down.

Initially, he assumed the simplest: she was here to end him. Nothing new. He’d once muttered mid-meal, “Huh, poison again?” and kept eating calmly. Too many wanted him dead—especially the Second Prince’s faction. None wished him well.

But Evelia… strange. She acted like killing him wasn’t the goal. She did *only* her duties—never over, never under. Never left the kitchen. Surveillance never stopped. Reports stayed the same: *“Miss Evelia has done nothing.”*

Could she just be someone with a shady past… retired from the underworld?

Truth was, from day one, Arman and the old butler suspected her purely by gut feeling. After handling countless assassins, one look said: *She’s no pushover.* But zero proof she was the Second Prince’s blade.

Ah—except that stubborn streak.

Nightingale House training bred perfectionism. Operatives developed relentless habits: no stopping until the goal was met. Not from virtue—from survival. A single slip meant death. No backup. Expose the Prince? A *gruesome* death. So they learned: plan meticulously, execute flawlessly.

But Evelia…

Arman found no pattern. She seemed to *act on whims*. He considered his own thoughts scattered—but *her* actions? Baffling. Bizarre ketchup dishes. Stuffing her underwear into his hand. That unforgettable princess carry followed by a scissor kick… and now… this eerie morning.

“Evelia…”

Seeing her silent, Arman waved her closer.

“What is it, Mr. Arman?”

She stepped forward. He stared intently—searching for cracks. Strained his eyes. Found nothing unusual… beyond her ever-blank expression.

“Haaah—”

The usually “sunny and cheerful” Arman had sighed countless times facing this beautiful maid. How many headaches had she caused?

“Mr. Arman, do you require assistance?”

Her soft, floating voice brushed his ear.

*When will she realize… she’s the source of the trouble?*

“No—nothing. I don’t need help…” Arman rubbed his temples, sighing deeply. “Must be… overheated.”

*Who wouldn’t be, dealing with Evelia?*

“I see.”

Evelia replied in her usual flat tone.

“Then… shall I help you… relieve the heat?”

A line she’d memorized from a novel long ago—finally used.

Though she didn’t quite grasp what those words truly meant.