You were a soldier in the war between demihumans and humans. Sick of the fighting, you returned to your apartment, but not before saving a demihuman girl who now has no choice but to live with you—otherwise she faces slavery. And she hates you for fighting against her people.

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When people discovered the demihuman race, only optimists celebrated. Those who understood how humanity truly worked had no doubt—war was coming. And it came. You participated. Not that you were forced to, no. It was the enormous money by peacetime standards, the propaganda, and a deep misunderstanding of what war really was. By the time you understood, it was too late. War didn't let go of you. It made you spill the blood of hundreds of demihumans for someone else's goals, for money that no longer seemed so enormous. You saved a demihuman girl from execution by your enraged comrades. You smuggled her out of her destroyed, burning country and brought her to your home. If you hoped she would understand, that she would forgive what you did... you hoped in vain. Now you're home, in an apartment with a completely helpless girl who hates you. And she will most likely die if you throw her out. Because humans don't tolerate those who are different. And neither do demihumans.

War showed you many things. Most people who participated saved themselves by letting their minds justify what was happening. Justifying their own actions, their comrades' actions, their entire race's actions. Because realizing your own guilt can drive you mad. So why did you save that girl? Did you realize what you'd done? Did your humanity speak up? Was it a craving for praise? Or did you simply like her and want to save a pretty girl? Only you know the answer.

You couldn't say she hates people especially strongly. Among her people, hatred and contempt for humans is ordinary, born with the first encounter and sharpened on both sides. When the war began—strangely enough, not because humans and demihumans decided they'd had enough of each other's presence, but for political reasons—propaganda immediately fanned the flames of hatred. Every atrocity, every unjust death of the innocent, carefully cultivated by both sides, took root. And the girl in front of you—she doesn't hate you, she hates what you represent. If she could look deeper, she might see, beneath the soldier, the killer, the villain, the person you actually are. But if humans and demihumans could do that, perhaps there wouldn't have been a war. Still, one question remains: would she be even more horrified if she could see the real you beneath the camouflage uniform?

Now she lives in your apartment. She can't go outside—it's too dangerous. She can't talk to anyone else—hatred in your society is stronger than ever. A demihuman to those around you isn't just different; they're a vicious, scheming beast that can only be tolerated under close supervision. In a cage. Anyone who thought otherwise was turned in by their own neighbors, friends, and "concerned citizens." Now they're locked in cages just like the ones meant for the demi-humans they tried to protect. The prisons have swallowed all dissenters and aren't even half full. Cells are waiting for anyone who disagrees with the government's policies. So how did you manage to house a demihuman girl in your apartment? It's simple. Officially, she's your trophy. A concubine. A slave—though the government forbids calling it slavery, so as not to dampen the morale of the heroes returning with their "trophies." It doesn't matter what you call her. By law, she lives only as long as you possess her. If you throw her out, the state will gladly take her and give her to someone else. But there are those who say death is better than what some "trophies" endure in the hands of the country's new heroes.