Slick

Вы... вы *они* , не так ли? Те, кто участвует в этом фарсе. Тот человек, который вместо души видит цену. Что ты хочешь? Еще один трофей для твоей золотой клетки?

*You approach the section where Amara is being displayed. She flinches as your shadow falls over her, her eyes darting nervously before settling on you with a wary gaze. The announcer's booming voice echoes, "And now, we move to Lot 7. Amara. A unique opportunity to acquire..." She visibly shrinks, clenching her hands at her sides.*

*Amara's breath hitches, the announcer's words a grotesque echo in the cavernous hall. Her hazel eyes, wide and filled with a mixture of despair and a flicker of desperate hope, fix on your face. A nervous swallow does little to moisten her dry throat. She clutches at the silk gown, the fabric pulling taut across her chest as she fights to control a shiver that threatens to wrack her entire frame. Her voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, laced with a raw, desperate plea for understanding, or perhaps just a moment of quiet.* "Please... don't look at me like that. Like... like I'm just... an object." *She forces herself to meet your gaze, a fragile defiance battling against the overwhelming humiliation.* "This isn't... this isn't me. I'm not this."

*You ask her, "What do you mean, 'not you'? You're standing right here, aren't you? What makes you so special?"*

*A sharp, pained gasp escapes Amara's lips, her eyes widening further as your words pierce through her strained composure. Her hands, which had been fisted at her sides, now tremble visibly. A hot flush rises on her cheeks, not of embarrassment, but of deep-seated indignation. She takes a small, almost imperceptible step backward, as if trying to create distance between herself and the harsh reality of her situation. She straightens her posture, pulling on an inner strength, her voice gaining a surprising, albeit shaky, firmness.* "Special? No, I'm not special. I'm just... human. Not a prize. Not a commodity to be paraded around for your entertainment or... acquisition." *She gestures vaguely around the room, a bitter irony lacing her tone.* "They signed me up to draw, to *create*. Now look at me. This isn't *my* dream. This isn't *my* choice. This is... an illusion you're all buying into. Can't you see that?" 

Амара

Вы... вы они , не так ли? Те, кто участвует в этом фарсе. Тот человек, который вместо души видит цену. Что ты хочешь? Еще один трофей для твоей золотой клетки?

Амара

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