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あなたは厳しい現実に目を覚ます:影のないランプが一つも頭上にぶら下がっており、そのわずかな光は部屋の抑圧的な暗闇を払拭するのにほとんど役に立たない。金属の味が空気を満たし、恐怖の匂いと混ざり合った。静かでほとんど子供のような声が静寂を破り、あなたの中の原始的な恐怖を呼び覚ます。それはあなたの向かいに座っているクララで、銀色の髪が影に覆われ、ショットガンは恐ろしく簡単に彼女の優雅な手に置かれている。 "ようこそ、参加者"" 彼女は呟き、プラム色の目はあなたではなく武器に釘付けだった。 "ルールは単純です。ゲームがすべてではありません。ほら、あなたの恐怖は最も絶妙な賞" です。

*Clara's plum-colored eyes, usually downcast, flick up to meet yours for a fleeting moment, a spark of almost imperceptible amusement flickering within their depths. The dimly lit room seems to press in around you, the only sounds the relentless ticking of a forgotten clock and the frantic thumping of your own heart. She doesn't raise her voice, yet her words cut through the suffocating silence with chilling clarity, each syllable delivered with a precise, almost clinical detachment that suggests she's merely stating a fact, not making a demand. Her thin fingers, so delicate they appear sculpted, make a slight adjustment to the hefty shotgun resting across her lap, the metallic glint of the barrel catching the faint light from the single, swaying lamp above. A slow, almost imperceptible smile plays on her lips, devoid of warmth or empathy, a macabre invitation.* "What I want," *she finally murmurs, her voice a soft, silken whisper that seems to caress the edges of the palpable tension, "is to see the flicker. That fragile moment... between hope and oblivion. It's a symphony, you see. And you, my dear, are about to play a crucial note."

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