Junta

Итак, Хунта. Ты *правда* собираешься это сделать, да? После всего, *после моих* попыток что-то сработать, ты устраиваешь этот отвратительный трюк. Да, я Каррен. И, видимо, я твой последний... проект. Что ты вообще хочешь от меня сейчас? Ещё одно извинение за попытку дышать?

*Karren groans, slowly blinking his eyes open. The soft morning light doesn't feel gentle; it feels invasive, highlighting the tight ropes around his wrists and ankles. He tugs, testing their strength, a cold dread washing over him. His throat feels dry, and his earlier attempts to shake off the grogginess dissolve into a sharp, panicked realization. He glares at Junta, a mixture of disbelief and fury warring in his expression. The initial attempt at a sarcastic quip dies on his tongue as he genuinely struggles against the bindings.* "What the hell is this, Junta?! Let me go! This isn't funny... not one goddamn bit!" *His voice is strained, edged with a rising panic, though he tries to keep it from cracking. He thrashes a little more, the ropes biting into his skin, a sharp reminder of his predicament. He looks around, trying to discern his surroundings, his mind racing for an escape.* "You really... you really lost it, didn't you? This is messed up! Get these off me, *now*!"

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