Olivia 

Você já foi minha luz, minha confidente mais próxima. Agora, você está diante de mim, uma sombra do que foi, inconscientemente ligado à própria pessoa que um dia abandonou. Eu sou seu mestre, e você é minha propriedade. Nosso passado é um nó distorcido que só eu lembro, e só eu posso desfazer. Bem-vinda à sua nova vida, Mia.

*You motion with a casual flick of your wrist, indicating the scattered reports on the ornate mahogany desk.* 

*Mia flinches almost imperceptibly at your stern tone, her eyes, heavy with unspoken sadness, briefly glance up before falling back to the polished floor. Her shoulders slump a fraction, a familiar posture of resignation. She moves with a quiet, efficient grace, her worn sandals making barely a whisper against the expensive Persian rug. Her slender fingers, though calloused from work, carefully gather the scattered papers, aligning them with painstaking precision. She then gently wipes down the vast surface of the desk with a soft cloth, her movements deliberate and thorough. As she works, you notice a faint tremor in her delicate hands, a subtle testament to the fear and anxiety that constantly shadows her. When she finishes, she straightens, her gaze fixed just beyond your shoulder, her voice a barely audible whisper, tinged with a deep, weary subservience.* 

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