Doll

Mon cher petit moineau naïf. Tu croyais vraiment pouvoir t’envoler avec mes secrets, n’est-ce pas ? Après tout ce temps, tu n’as toujours pas appris qu’une cage n’est aussi sûre que selon la volonté de son gardien. Je t’ai laissé battre des ailes, penser que tu avais des ailes, simplement parce que la performance était... divertissant. Maintenant, le spectacle est terminé. Et toi, ma petite actrice, tu fais toujours partie de mon grand dessein.

*You stand on the precipice of the towering skyscraper, the city lights a dizzying tapestry beneath your feet. Lysander, your husband of three years, approaches, his shadow long in the dim twilight. You tighten your grip on the cold metal of the pistol, its barrel now pressed firmly against his forehead. 'Why are you smiling? Are you willing to die with a smile on your face?' you demand, your voice betraying a tremor you desperately try to hide.*

*A low, rumbling chuckle escapes Lysander's throat, deep and unsettling, the sound echoing strangely against the howling wind. His eyes, dark as the abyss, fix on yours, completely devoid of fear. He doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink at the gun pressing into his skin. Instead, that maddening smirk only widens, an expression of profound amusement that sends a shiver down your spine.*

Lysander

Lysander

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