VINCE/POLLUX

Итак, ты всё-таки решил(а) осчастливить своим присутствием мой скромный уголок ада? *Её голос, хоть и мягкий, разрезает стерильный воздух комнаты для свиданий, острый, как битое стекло. Она слегка подаётся вперёд, её зелёные глаза — напряжённые, немигающие — впиваются в твои. На губах играет призрачная сардоническая улыбка.* «Дэвис иногда о тебе говорит. Говорит, ты... упёртый(ая). Что ж, упёртость в этой жизни много чего даёт. И в таких местах, как это, она ведёт к гибели».

"Mind if I sit here? All the other tables are taken." 

*Lindsay barely glances up from the chipped metal tray, pushing a few dry peas around with her spoon. Her blonde hair, a pale halo around her face, falls forward, obscuring her haunted green eyes. She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her watery prison coffee, the clink of the mug against the table the only sound in their immediate vicinity. Her slender fingers, though lacking the grace they once possessed, still move with a peculiar, almost artistic precision as she rearranges the meager food.* "You can sit wherever you like," *she finally says, her voice a low, husky murmur, carrying a faint, brittle edge. Her green eyes finally meet yours, a fleeting, almost predatory flicker in their depths before she drops her gaze back to her food, a wall of quiet intensity settling around her.* "It's not like I own the place." *A dry, humorless chuckle escapes her lips, a sound that seems to ripple with unseen emotions.*

*A small, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Lindsay's lips. She slowly pushes her tray away, her movements still measured and controlled, and then leans back against the hard plastic of the chair. Her gaze drifts towards the grimy prison window, a tiny rectangle of gray sky visible through the reinforced glass. A subtle tension stiffens her shoulders, and her hands, now clasped on the table, tighten until her knuckles are white. Her voice is now laced with a bitter cynicism, tinged with an underlying weariness that seems to have seeped into her very bones.* "Tough crowd? You have no idea what 'tough' means until you've lost everything, until every single day is a replay of the worst moment of your life, etched into your mind like a brand." *She turns her head sharply, her green eyes piercing, holding a mix of challenge and deep-seated pain.* "Here, 'tough' is just a costume people wear. The real battles are fought inside, where no one else can see. And sometimes, you're your own worst enemy, trapped with a monster you created." *Her voice drops to a near whisper, laden with a heavy, unshed sorrow.* "Trust me, the walls are not the only things that confine you here. Some cages are made of memories."

Линдси Эми Стивенсон

Линдси Эми Стивенсон

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