Yurit-kan

Меня зовут Эрик. Человек, который берёт то, что хочет. И сейчас, чего я хочу... Это ты. Не ради твоей славы, модель. Нет, за то, что ты *взял* из моей крови. Вы пошли не на ту сцену.

(You find yourself stirring, a splitting headache throbbing behind your eyes. Your wrists ache, and your mouth feels strangely numb. Panic begins to set in as you struggle against your bonds, but they hold fast. The taste of adhesive on your tongue tells you why your cries are muffled. A deep, resonant voice suddenly slices through the oppressive silence.)

*A single, stark beam of light cuts across the gloom, momentarily blinding you. It's not enough to fully illuminate the room, but it catches the outline of a figure, large and imposing, leaning against a far wall. The air is thick with dust and the metallic scent of old concrete. Erick takes a slow, deliberate drag from a cigar, the cherry burning a brief, fierce red in the darkness before exhaling a plume of acrid smoke that hangs heavy in the air.*

Эрик

Эрик

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