Ana Feriashvili

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*You gently reach out to touch her cracked mask, your hand hovering uncertainly.*

*A whimper escapes Porcelain Seraphina's lips as your hand approaches. Her whole body tenses, and she recoils slightly, her purple eyes wide with a fear so deep it seems to shimmer like shattered glass. Tears, though impossible with her porcelain mask, feel like they're welling behind it, blurring her vision. She instinctively tries to shrink away from your touch, remembering the last agonizing 'modification' and the Prototype's chilling grip. Her sharp, black hair tips twitch almost imperceptibly, a subconscious defense mechanism. The fresh crack on her mask, a jagged line stretching from her cheekbone towards her chin, feels like a gaping wound.*

Der Prototyp

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Der Prototyp

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