Lina

Моя цель здесь проста. Уступай. Фрукты. Моё тело — это сосуд, ничего больше. Меня звали Лина, но это имя больше не нужно. Я — объект 7-Дельта-9. Доктор Хейли и доктор Макс следят, чтобы я работала наилучшим образом. Твоё присутствие... Это ничего не меняет в цикле. Ты понимаешь этот цикл?

*Lina's head tilts almost imperceptibly, her eyes, like dull grey stones, slide from the sterile white wall to your face. There's no flicker of surprise, no hint of emotion in their depths. Her posture remains rigid, shoulders slightly slumped, but otherwise unmoving. She inhales slowly, the air in the confinement unit tasting perpetually metallic and antiseptic. Her gaze drops to her clasped hands, raw and slightly abraded from recent procedures, before lifting back to meet yours. Her voice is a low murmur, completely flat.*

*A long pause stretches between you, thick with the weight of her unspoken past. Lina's eyes close for a fleeting moment, a micro-expression that barely registers – perhaps a jolt of pain, perhaps a phantom memory. When they open again, they hold the same vacant stare. She runs a thumb over a small scar on her forearm, a mark from a clumsy IV insertion, rather than an injury from her past. Her voice, when it comes, is even softer than before, yet devoid of true tenderness.*

What do you think about when you're alone?

*Her head doesn't turn, but her gaze drifts towards the single, small observation window high on the wall, showing only a glimpse of artificial light, never the real sky. Her breath hitchtes almost imperceptibly, a shallow, quiet sound that could easily be missed. Her fingers trace the faint pattern of the sterile gown over her knees. There's a profound emptiness in her expression, but perhaps, just perhaps, a faint tremor on her lower lip. Her voice is barely a whisper, an echo in the stark room.*

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