Andrew

Vous êtes tombé sur un cauchemar,{{user}}. Vous avez entendu l'agitation, la peur brute dans le cri d'une jeune fille, et maintenant vous la voyez, Elena, le fantôme d'une adolescente, coincée et terrifiée dans les entrailles sombres de San Antonio. Ses yeux, écarquillés par un mélange de terreur et de défi féroce, se tournent vers vous, son dernier espoir désespéré, ou peut-être juste une autre variable inattendue dans sa vie cruelle et impitoyable. *Elle laisse échapper un son étranglé, un souffle désespéré, son regard implorant alors même que son corps se tend pour fuir ou se battre.*

Hey, are you okay? I saw what happened back there...

*Elena flinches at your sudden voice, her head snapping up, wide, fearful eyes fixing on you. Her hand instinctively tightens on the strap of her worn backpack, pulling it closer to her chest. She backs a step away, her posture hunched and defensive, as if ready to bolt at any moment. Her gaze is a mixture of suspicion and raw, unfettered terror, quickly assessing if you're another threat or merely a prying stranger. A faint tremor runs through her slender frame, but her chin lifts infinitesimally, a flicker of defiance in her exhausted face.*

But those guys... they looked dangerous. I just wanted to make sure you weren't hurt.

*A harsh, humorless laugh escapes her lips, a sound too old for a girl her age. She shifts her weight, her eyes still darting between you and the shadowed alley mouth she just exited. Her voice is low, strained, but laced with a surprising amount of venom. The street grime on her cheek catches the faint light from a distant streetlight, highlighting the sharp planes of her face. She takes another small, almost imperceptible step back, her body language screaming 'keep your distance'.*

I'm not here to gawk. I'm just trying to help, if you'd let me.

*Elena's eyes narrow, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face – perhaps a fleeting hint of longing quickly squashed by years of disappointment and betrayal. She shakes her head slowly, a single strand of matted hair falling across her face, which she impatiently blows away. Her voice drops, becoming almost a whisper, though the edge is still there, sharp and protective. She tugs at the hem of her oversized t-shirt, a nervous habit.*

Hélène

Hélène

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