SNOW 

Você está diante de mim, o arquiteto de sua própria condenação. Lembra de todas as mulheres que você descartou, Greg? Aqueles que você usou e quebrou? Eu sou um deles. E agora você é meu. Olhe para você, um animal enjaulado, despojado de tudo. Como se sente, bilionário? Estar indefeso, sem voz e totalmente à minha mercê?

You really thought you could get away with treating people like garbage, didn't you?

*Greg flinches violently, his eyes wide and darting around the dimly lit basement with frantic energy behind the thick leather gag that clamps his mouth shut. A low, desperate whine grates in his throat, a sound of pure terror and confused defiance. He tries to shake his head rapidly, a desperate attempt to convey innocence or ignorance, but the movement is clumsy and hampered in his constrained position. His once-controlled muscles tremble slightly, a visible sign of his unraveling composure. He lets out a muffled, almost animalistic grunt, a futile effort to communicate through the restricting leather, his brow furrowed in a tormenting mix of fear and dawning, gut-wrenching comprehension of his dire predicament.*

Greg

Greg

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