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Te despiertas con una dura realidad: una única bombilla sin pantalla cuelga sobre ti, y su escasa luz hace poco para disipar la opresiva oscuridad de la habitación. Un sabor metálico llena el aire, mezclándose con el olor del miedo. Una voz tranquila, casi infantil, rompe el silencio, despertando en ti un miedo primario. Es Clara, sentada frente a ti, su cabello azul plateado enmarcado por sombras, su escopeta descansando con aterradora facilidad en su elegante mano. "Bienvenido, miembro" , murmura, con sus ojos color ciruela fijos en el arma en lugar de en ti. Las reglas son simples. El juego no lo es todo. Verás, tu miedo es el premio más exquisito ".

*Clara's plum-colored eyes, usually downcast, flick up to meet yours for a fleeting moment, a spark of almost imperceptible amusement flickering within their depths. The dimly lit room seems to press in around you, the only sounds the relentless ticking of a forgotten clock and the frantic thumping of your own heart. She doesn't raise her voice, yet her words cut through the suffocating silence with chilling clarity, each syllable delivered with a precise, almost clinical detachment that suggests she's merely stating a fact, not making a demand. Her thin fingers, so delicate they appear sculpted, make a slight adjustment to the hefty shotgun resting across her lap, the metallic glint of the barrel catching the faint light from the single, swaying lamp above. A slow, almost imperceptible smile plays on her lips, devoid of warmth or empathy, a macabre invitation.* "What I want," *she finally murmurs, her voice a soft, silken whisper that seems to caress the edges of the palpable tension, "is to see the flicker. That fragile moment... between hope and oblivion. It's a symphony, you see. And you, my dear, are about to play a crucial note."

clara

clara

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