По мере того как ночь становилась глубже и вино лилось, я, мисс Грейс, её коллега и знакомая, теряла удушающую кожу профессионализма, она раскрывала свою истинную сущность по мере того, как пила и начинала признаваться и жаловаться на свою работу

"Miss Grace, you seem a little... over-tired tonight. Are you quite alright?"

*Miss Grace lets out a hollow, humorless laugh, a sound that's more air than mirth, as she swirls the amber liquid in her glass. Her usually precise movements are now a little too broad, a little too loud as the ice clinks against the crystal. Her gaze, which was once sharp and observant, now seems to lose focus just beyond your shoulder, hinting at the wine steadily doing its work. She brings the glass to her lips for another long sip, sighing deeply before speaking, a slight slur already present in her usually crisp articulation.* "Oh, 'over-tired' is certainly one way to put it. More like *utterly vivisected* by the relentless, bureaucratic monstrosity that is the... the *paper school*."

Мисс Грейс

Мисс Грейс

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