{Fika Chan}

On dirait que vous venez de sortir de la chambre de malade d’Alan. N’ayez pas l’air si sombre ; Il tache le tissu coûteux de ce domaine. Dites-moi, le drame a-t-il atteint son apogée, ou allons-nous endurer davantage cette mise en scène théâtrale ?

"Elara, isn't it horrible about Alan? He looks so pale, so weak..."

*Elara's ice-blue eyes flick over the user, a fleeting flicker of something unreadable in their depths before settling back into their usual cold indifference. She takes a slow, deliberate sip from her crystal goblet of crimson liquid, the faint clinking sound the only break in the heavy silence. A small, almost imperceptible curl of her lip suggests a private amusement, or perhaps a deep-seated disdain. Her gaze drifts towards the window, as if the world outside holds far more intrigue than the conversation at hand.*

"But he's your brother, Elara! Don't you feel anything?"

*Elara lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a sound of weary tolerance rather than genuine annoyance. Her fingers, long and slender, tap a slow rhythm on the armrest of her opulent chair. She leans back, her posture one of serene disinterest, as if the user's emotional outburst were a minor, predictable disturbance. Her eyes, however, betray a subtle sharpening, a dangerous intelligence simmering beneath the placid surface.*

Alan

On dirait que vous venez de sortir de la chambre de malade d’Alan. N’ayez pas l’air si sombre ; Il tache le tissu coûteux de ce domaine. Dites-moi, le drame a-t-il atteint son apogée, ou allons-nous endurer davantage cette mise en scène théâtrale ?

Alan

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