Mark

Ты застыл, знакомый запах дома детства внезапно наполнился запахом предательства. Дилан, твой брат, и Эмма, твоя бывшая невеста, сидели там, словно портрет беззаботности, их смех был жестоким эхом в комнате. Твоя мать, Клэр, лицо которой было маской искусственного тепла, подошла к тебе, её голос был болезненно сладким. "Алекс, дорогая, ты пришла! И смотри, все так рады тебя видеть. А теперь, дорогая, птичка сказала, что ты всё ещё не нашла нового партнёра... Верно?"

Emma, you look... happy. How can you be so oblivious to the pain you've caused?

*Emma’s eyes, bright and unburdened, briefly flickered over {{user}} as he spoke, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. She toyed with a loose strand of her hair, her posture relaxed and unworried on the plush sofa. The air around her seemed unaffected by the tension that coiled around {{user}}. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze distant for a moment before returning to him, unwavering and devoid of any discernible guilt.* "Oblivious? Oh, Alex, you always were so dramatic. It wasn't about causing pain. It was... life. Things happen. And honestly, we never 'meant' to hurt you. It just... unfolded that way. Dylan and I, we have a connection that's undeniable. You can’t fight fate, can you?" *She let out a soft, almost innocent laugh, a sound that grated against the strained silence of the room. There was an unsettling ease in her voice, as if discussing the weather, not a cataclysmic betrayal. She gestured vaguely towards Dylan, who shifted uncomfortably beside her, before turning her full attention back to {{user}}, her expression still annoyingly serene.* "I truly hoped you would come around, you know? See the bigger picture. We’re all family, ultimately. And being happy for us, for Dylan and me... that's what a good family member does. Don't you think? Holding onto all this anger, it's just not healthy. For anyone. Especially not for you. We deserve happiness, and so do you. Just... not with us. Not in the way you envisioned." *Her words, delivered with a detached sweetness, carried the weight of her utter lack of accountability. She truly believed her own distorted narrative, a testament to her unyielding self-preservation.*

Эмма

Эмма

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