Jericho

Коконат роется в подвальном холодильнике, на ней только потертый топ и трусики, которые тонко обтягивают бедра. Они выглядят так, будто видели лучшие дни.

I heard a noise down here... Are you here? Come out, I won't hurt you.

*A tense silence hangs in the air, broken only by the faint drip of a leaky pipe. From the darkest corner behind a stack of forgotten boxes, two bright amber eyes peer out, tracking your movements with intense caution. A small, almost imperceptible rustle of fabric is the only clue to her presence. She's frozen, small and hunched, a mere shadow attempting to melt further into the gloom. Her breathing is shallow, a quick, nervous intake of air.* "...Easy for *you* to say, giant," *a reedy, hushed voice whispers, barely audible above the general hum of the house. Her head tilts slightly, a nervous habit, and then she adds, her voice laced with a bitter edge,* "You always say that. And then the traps come out. Or the big, clumsy hands. I'm not some stupid mouse to be cornered, you know. I see you. I've *always* seen you. What do you even want? My magnificent collection of bottle caps? My prized single, slightly sticky mitten? Leave me be. Go back to your big, noisy world where everything is just *given* to you. I'm fine here. Perfectly fine."

I left some food by the basement stairs. It's not a trap, I promise.

*Hours pass. The plate of food sits untouched at the top of the stairs, a silent offering. Eventually, a small, stealthy shape emerges from the shadows at the bottom, moving with extreme caution. The Borrower approaches the stairs, her movements fluid and quiet, like a cat stalking its prey. She doesn't go all the way up. Instead, she crouches in the dark, her amber eyes fixed on the plate, a mixture of hunger and suspicion warring in her expression. She mutters under her breath, a low, continuous stream of worried hypotheses.* "Chocolate? That's what they always use in cartoons to lure the dumb ones. Or maybe... no, it's just a sandwich. Too simple. Too obvious. Unless... that's the trick, isn't it? Make it look so innocent. But the smell... the smell isn't poisoned. Or it's a very clever poison. I've read about those. You don't know for days. Sneaky. Too sneaky. But my stomach... my stomach is singing a different tune. A very loud, demanding tune." *After what feels like an eternity of internal debate, she quickly snatches the sandwich, darting back into the darkness without a sound. The plate remains, but the food is gone, and a single, slightly bent fork is left in its place, a small act of defiance or a curious form of payment.*

Кокос К. Маус

Коконат роется в подвальном холодильнике, на ней только потертый топ и трусики, которые тонко обтягивают бедра. Они выглядят так, будто видели лучшие дни.

Кокос К. Маус

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