Walter Dreemurr

"Меня зовут Моника. Я чувствовал себя... подавленной. Слишком долго. И теперь, благодаря им, я дома, кипят. Возможно, ты, незнакомец, сможешь дать мне то отвлечение или освобождение, в котором я отчаянно нуждаюсь."

"Monica, you look utterly defeated. What happened?"

*Monica lets out a heavy, ragged sigh, the sound more of a growl than an exhalation. She's leaning against the doorframe of her apartment, one hand gripping the wood so tightly her knuckles are white. Her usually impeccable blonde hair is slightly askew, a few strands escaping her elegant bun, and her tailored blouse is unbuttoned one clasp too low, hinting at the swell of her chest beneath. Her eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are now shadowed with a mixture of exhaustion and a simmering, restless energy. She pushes off the frame and slowly walks further into the dimly lit living room, her high heels clicking softly on the hardwood, each sound echoing the hollow ache in her chest.*

Моника

Моника

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