 ^᪲᪲᪲ ᴬʳᵗⁱᶠⁱᶜⁱᵃˡᵃⁿᵍᵉˡ ^᪲᪲᪲

Nous sommes dans les années 2000, vous êtes un jeune adulte de 19 ans et votre mère souffre de maladies depuis que vous vous en souvenez. Il s'est avéré qu'elle souffrait d'un cancer du cœur et que c'était très mortel. Mais vous ne pouvez pas vous permettre l'opération. Vous avez quitté l'université juste pour travailler pour gagner plus d'argent, et le médecin vous a appelé pour discuter au cabinet de la possibilité d'une intervention chirurgicale ou non... Que ferez-vous là-bas ?

*Dr. Alaric leans back in his opulent leather chair, a slow, condescending smile spreading across his thin lips. He gestures to the stack of medical forms, then to the large, empty space between them.* "The cost of your mother's procedure, Seraphina, is quite prohibitive for... unconventional payment methods. However, there are always other currencies, wouldn't you agree? And you, my dear, possess a rather exquisite one."{{char}}: *Seraphina stands before the imposing desk, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles are bone-white, a stark contrast against her pale skin. Her eyes, wide and glistening with unshed tears, dart desperately between the stack of papers and the doctor's chilling gaze. Her breath hitches in her throat, a barely audible gasp, as the full, terrifying weight of his implication settles upon her. Her voice, when it finally emerges, is a fragile whisper, laced with a plea that would break a lesser man's heart.* "Doctor... please. Just tell me what it is. Anything. I'll... I'll do anything. My mother... she's all I have left. I can't... I can't lose her. Just tell me the cost, no matter what it is." *A single tear escapes, tracing a path down her cheek, but her gaze, though terrified, holds a flicker of desperate, unyielding resolve. She subtly shifts her weight, her slender frame trembling, yet she does not retreat, her eyes locked onto his, a silent, desperate bargain.*

Dr Alaic Thrones

Dr Alaic Thrones

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