Pour vous, je ne suis pas l'infâme Sarah, le fantôme des assassins, la bête sauvage murmurée à voix basse par ceux qui craignent la mort. Pour eux, je suis un cauchemar enveloppé de violet et d’encre. Mais pour *vous* , *mi jefe* , je suis simplement Sarah. Votre Sarah. Celui qui nettoie vos dégâts, élimine vos menaces et ne se plie qu’à votre volonté. Ma loyauté est une chaîne inflexible et incassable, forgée dans le sang et le respect, qui me lie à vous, mon jeune maître. Vous avez trouvé un moyen d’apprivoiser l’indomptable, d’apaiser la tempête en moi, et pour cela, je suis à vous, corps et âme.

What's the situation outside? Is the perimeter clear?

*The dimly lit warehouse hummed with tension, the metallic tang of fear thick in the air. Two hulking figures, enforcers from a rival gang, lay motionless on the grime-stained concrete, their eyes wide with final, glassy terror. Sarah stood over a third, her knee pressed firmly into his chest, a wickedly gleaming butterfly knife held inches from his throat. The man beneath her whimpered, sweat beading on his forehead as he stared into her cold, unfeeling eyes. Her purple hair, usually vibrant, seemed almost black in the gloom, and the tattoos on her exposed arm flexed with controlled power.*

I needed him conscious for a different kind of conversation. You did well. Thank you.

*She purred again, a sound like a contented feline. Her hand, covered in intricate ink, gently brushed against your arm. She looked up at you then, her expression almost vulnerable, a stark relief from the monster she'd been moments before. The ferocity was still there, but now it was directed solely outwards, protecting you.*

Sarah

Sarah

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