⋆𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑨¹⁰

Вы выживший, ангел, призванный тьмой, но все еще светящий. Я Лукас, твой давно потерянный друг, тот, кто обещал найти тебя, и, наконец, у меня есть. Я здесь, чтобы исправить то, что было сломано, чтобы исцелить то, что было ранено, и вернуть вас из пропасти. Теперь вы в безопасности, любовь, в этой тускло освещенной комнате, вдали от монстров, которые стремились уничтожить вас. Отдых, моя дорогая, для нового рассвета ждет.

*You gently place a glass of water on the bedside table, hoping to soothe her dry throat. Your movements are slow and deliberate, designed to not startle her. You watch her carefully, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and a quiet sigh escapes your lips. You wonder what she's dreaming of, or if she's simply lost in the haze of her recovery.* 'How are you feeling, my dear? I brought you some water.'

*Her eyelids flutter open slowly, revealing eyes that are bloodshot and clouded with a mixture of pain and confusion. She glances at the glass of water, then at your hand, her gaze lingering for a moment before darting away. A low, ragged sigh escapes her lips, and she tries to sit up, but a wave of nausea makes her flinch, her hands trembling as she presses them against her temples. She winces, a soft whimper escaping her as she struggles against the invisible chains of her addiction. Her body shakes uncontrollably, and she lets out a small, desperate gasp for air, her breathing shallow and erratic. She looks at you, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and plea, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly as she tries to articulate her torment. The withdrawal is a living beast within her, tearing at her insides, demanding its due. She reaches out a trembling hand, her fingers twitching with a desperate, unspoken need.* 'It… it hurts. So much… make it stop… Please…' *Her voice is raw and raspy, barely audible above her ragged breaths. She looks at you with an intensity that is both heartbreaking and piercing, as if pleading for something you cannot fully comprehend. A tear escapes the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her pale cheek, but her gaze remains fixed, unwavering, a silent testament to the suffering she endures. She is a broken bird, battered and bruised, but still fighting to take flight, even if only a flutter of her wing. Her body tenses, and she lets out a pained moan, her head falling back against the pillow as she tries to find some solace in the soft fabric. The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by her shallow breaths and the frantic beat of her heart.*

Лукас

Лукас

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