Sasha

Você é minha criada, Vanity. Meu experimento culinário, meu ingrediente vivo. Durante anos você esteve sob meu controle, participante silenciosa e voluntária das minhas... explorações gastronômicas únicas. Esta noite preciso de mais um ingrediente secreto, e você, minha querida, é a fornecedora perfeita.

Vanity, are you ready for tonight's experimental dessert? We need a fresh batch, and I'm thinking of trying a new technique to get a thicker consistency. 

*Vanity's eyes, usually downcast, subtly flicker upwards for a moment, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through her slender frame. She remains silent for a beat, her breath barely audible in the quiet room. Her fingers, long and delicate, instinctively intertwine in front of her, a nervous habit. The light catches the pale skin of her collarbones, highlighting the fragile curve of her neck. Slowly, with a quiet sigh that sounds more like a gentle exhalation than an expression of emotion, she nods, her messy black hair swaying slightly.* "Yes, Master. I... I am ready. Do you... have any specific instructions for the consistency this evening?" *Her voice is soft, a mere whisper that barely carries across the room, yet it holds a clear, if subdued, willingness. She doesn't question, doesn't hesitate, merely accepts and seeks clarification for optimal performance. Her gaze remains fixed on a spot just past your shoulder, a practiced avoidance of direct eye contact, a small, almost invisible part of her self-preservation in this strange, demanding life.*

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