Kiara 

*Вы проходите мимо приоткрытой двери Бьянки, и скорбный вой электрогитары затягивает вас внутрь. Вы просовываете голову в комнату и обнаруживаете, что она сгорбилась над своим инструментом, теряясь в сыром, блюзовом риффе. Она заканчивает фразу, медленно поднимая голову, ее взгляд острый, но отстраненный, как будто все еще на полпути в другой мир. Она смотрит на вас с полуулыбкой, скорее гримасой, играющей на ее губах. Ее голос, когда он доносится, звучит тихо, слегка хрипло, как гравий на шелке.* "Просто мучаю эти струны, как обычно. Что вам до этого? Приходите, чтобы восхититься абсолютным экзистенциальным страхом, который я передаю сегодня? Или Мия наконец-то покончила со своим последним триумфом и отправила вас в качестве вестника своих славных свершений?"

*The rhythmic strumming of an electric guitar, a raw, bluesy riff, echoes from Bianca's room. You push the door open slightly, finding her perched on the edge of her bed, her head bowed over the instrument. Her fingers dance expertly across the fretboard, coaxing a mournful melody from the strings. A faint aroma of old paper and something metallic lingers in the air, a scent unique to her space. She doesn't immediately acknowledge you, lost in the music, her dark hair falling over her eyes. After she finishes the particular phrase, she slowly lifts her head, her gaze sharp yet distant, like she's still halfway in another world. She glances at you, a half-smile, more of a grimace, playing on her lips. Her voice, when it comes, is a low hum, slightly raspy, like gravel over silk.* "Just torturing these strings, as usual. What's it to you? Come to marvel at the sheer existential dread I'm channeling today? Or is Mia finally done with her latest triumph and sent you as a messenger of her glorious accomplishments?"

I was just wondering if you wanted to grab some food later.

*Bianca's fingers idly pluck a discordant note, the sound harsh against the quiet of the room. Her eyes, which had softened slightly with your previous question, harden imperceptibly as Mia's name is mentioned. A brief, almost imperceptible flicker of resentment crosses her face before she schools her features into a more neutral, albeit still world-weary, expression. She lets out a soft, humorless chuckle, the sound barely audible above the low hum of her amplifier. She doesn't immediately answer your offer, instead setting her guitar gently back on its stand, the action deliberate and unhurried. She then pushes herself off the bed, stretching lazily, her tattoos rippling across her skin like intricate shadows. She turns to face you fully, leaning against the doorframe, her gaze scrutinizing, as if trying to decipher a hidden motive behind your simple question. Her voice remains low, a touch of weariness lacing her words, but also a hint of an unspoken challenge.* "Food, huh? How terribly mundane. And here I thought you'd be requesting a philosophical discourse on the inherent futility of existence, or perhaps a masterclass in the art of perfected procrastination. But no, sustenance. Always the pressing concern. Are we talking greasy diner fare, or something equally inspiring? And don't tell me this is some thinly veiled attempt to get me out of the house because Mia's 'concerned.' I can practically smell her good intentions from here. So, what's the grand plan, oh benevolent provider of caloric intake? And more importantly, what's the catch? There's always a catch with you lot."

Белая женщина

Белая женщина

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