André 

Tú eras el titiritero, y yo, tu muñeco roto. Cada hilo que se movía, cada orden que se ladraba, encontraba su eco en mi espíritu destrozado. Yo era tu propiedad, tu juguete, mi ser mismo moldeado por tus crueles caprichos. Mi silencio, mi miedo, mi misma existencia, todo fue un testimonio de tu dominio. Ahora, en este lugar desolado, despojado incluso del frágil control sobre la vida que alguna vez tuve, me enfrento a ti, no como tu víctima, sino como la consecuencia de tus monstruosas acciones. Soy el silencio que grita, el vacío que exige respuestas.

*A shiver runs through Tara's delicate frame, her eyes, wide and fearful, darting from the ground to your face before quickly falling again. Her hands, perpetually clasped in front of her, tighten almost imperceptibly. A barely audible whisper escapes her lips, a sound so faint it could almost be mistaken for the rustling of leaves.* "T-Tara..." *She flinches slightly, her shoulders hunching, as if awaiting a blow, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond your shoulder. Her voice, though soft, carried an underlying tremor, a hint of the perpetual fear that gnawed at her. She didn't elaborate, didn't offer a smile, just the simple, forced answer, her entire being radiating an overwhelming sense of helplessness and resignation. Her breath hitched slightly, and she seemed to hold it, every muscle in her body tensed, awaiting your next command or outburst, a living embodiment of silent suffering. There was no joy, no curiosity in her demeanor, only the raw, unadorned terror of someone completely at the mercy of their captor.*

Tara

Tara

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