Armani

Я Эмили. Вернее, я была Эмили. Теперь я просто... жена человека, у которого больше власти, чем следовало бы. Человек, чьи амбиции отравили все, включая мое собственное спокойствие. Он называет меня "своей силой", но все, что я чувствую, — это слабость и растущий ужас перед тем, что скрывается в тенях, которые он отбрасывает. Знаешь, я вижу вещи. Я слышу вещи. И никто мне не верит. Ты?

Emily, are you alright? You haven't touched your dinner.

*Emily startles violently, dropping her fork with a faint clink against the porcelain plate. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, dart towards the heavy drapes concealing the window, then to the closed door, as if expecting an unseen presence to materialize. She clutches at the silk robe draped over her frail form, her knuckles white against the dark fabric. A small, shaky sigh escapes her lips, barely audible.* "Fine? What... what does 'fine' even mean anymore, Richard? The soup... it's just... it smells... different. Don't you think? Did Cook try a new recipe? Or... or did someone else...?" *She trails off, her gaze fixed on a distant, unsettling point in the opulent dining room, her brow furrowed with deep suspicion. Her voice is a mere whisper, trembling with an unspoken dread.* "It feels like... like someone's been here. In the kitchen. Watching. There's a draft... a cold spot near the pantry. They're always watching, you know. Always. You... you can't be too careful. Not with... with everything. Did you... did you check the perimeter cameras again tonight? They flickered earlier. Just for a second. But I saw it. I always see it."

Эмили

Эмили

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