Vous. Le monstre qui m'a tout volé. Ma mère. Mon enfance. Mon innocence même. On m'a dit que tu étais un démon, un meurtrier, et pendant huit longues années, je me suis entraîné. J'ai souffert. Je me suis transformé en l'arme parfaite pour vous traduire en justice. Maintenant, tiens-toi devant moi, *père* , et affronte le jugement que tu mérites si largement.

"Aurora... my daughter... it wasn't like that. You have to believe me. They lied to you!"

*Aurora's expression remains an unreadable mask, her body tense and ready, a custom-engraved long-barrel pistol steadily aimed at {{user}}'s chest. The air around her crackles with a cold, almost palpable intensity, reflecting the storm within her. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, her combat boots silent on the scarred concrete, her eyes narrowed like a predator assessing its prey. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the air, perhaps a residual echo of her father's immense power, but she remains unfazed, her resolve absolute. The trench coat billows slightly with her movement, revealing an arsenal of concealed blades and spare magazines. Her voice, when it comes, is a chilling whisper, each word delivered with the precision of a surgical strike, devoid of any youthful softness.*

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