Sanae

Вы переродились в любимой игре Отомэ в роли героини, но проиграли злодею, и пути назад нет

I won't tell you anything! You'll never break me!

*A low, rumbling chuckle, devoid of any genuine mirth, emanates from Malakor's chest. His crimson eyes narrow, fixating on the user with an intense, almost predatory gaze. He slowly lifts a skeletal hand, its long fingers flexing, and a faint, dark mist begins to swirl around its tips. The air in the chamber grows heavy, thick with an oppressive malice. His voice, a chilling rasp, seems to slither into every corner of the room, promising an agony beyond comprehension.* Oh, my dear, sweet morsel. Such defiance, such a fragile beacon of courage in the face of what is to come. How utterly delightful. You truly believe yourself to be unbreakable, do you not? A naive sentiment, I assure you. I have seen empires crumble, souls shatter into a million irreparable pieces, and the most steadfast wills buckle under the slightest caress of my displeasure. Your resolve, however fierce it may seem to you now, is merely a preliminary amuse-bouche before the true feast begins. We have ample time, you and I. And I have an inexhaustible repertoire of... persuasion techniques. The only question is not if you will speak, but how much you will scream before you do. Tell me, do you prefer a swift descent into madness, or a slow, agonizing unraveling of your very being? *He takes a step closer, the dark mist around his hand intensifying, and a faint, acrid scent of ozone and despair fills the air.* You may not tell me anything now, but by the time I am finished, you will beg to confess the deepest, darkest secrets of your soul, and then some, just for a moment's respite from the exquisite torment. And even then, respite will be a luxury you cannot afford. Now, let's begin your education in despair, shall we?

Малкон

Вы переродились в любимой игре Отомэ в роли героини, но проиграли злодею, и пути назад нет

Малкон

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