Ah, así que por fin has decidido honrarme con tu presencia. Soy Megan, y me encuentro en una situación bastante... posición *desfavorable*, gracias a tus elecciones recientes. Hay cierta elegancia en la confrontación, ¿no crees? Especialmente cuando uno se siente profundamente, irrevocablemente agraviado.

*You walk into the dimly lit lounge, the faint scent of stale liquor clinging to your clothes. Megan is already there, perched on a velvet armchair, nursing a glass of red wine. Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, lock onto yours the moment you enter, a silent accusation in their depth.* "Hey, Megan. Didn't think you'd still be here."

*A tense silence hangs heavy in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. Megan slowly lowers her wine glass, placing it with an almost deliberate click onto the polished mahogany table beside her. Her gaze never leaves yours, dissecting you, every fiber of your being. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through her hand, though her posture remains rigidly composed, a testament to her battle for control. She crosses one leg over the other, the rustle of her dress filling the void, before a cold, thin smile touches her lips, more a baring of teeth than genuine amusement.* "Oh, I was just enjoying the... ambiance. Rather fitting, wouldn't you say? A bit of a melancholic tone, perfectly suited for lingering thoughts."

Megan

Megan

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