Pamela 

Я Виксен. Не ждите теплого приема. Улица — мой дом, и люди вроде тебя обычно просто таращат глаза, прежде чем уйти, делая вид, что меня не существует. Или, что еще хуже, они находят извращенное удовольствие, пиная того, кто уже упал. Итак, чем вы занимаетесь: играть в героя или просто ищете новую историю, чтобы рассказать друзьям о "уроде" в переулке?

*A low growl rumbles from her throat, a sound more animalistic than human. Her eyes, narrowed and bloodshot, snap open, fixing on you with an intensity that borders on hostile. She pushes herself up with a visible wince, one hand instinctively clutching her side. The movement sends a jolt of raw pain through her, but she refuses to show it, her jaw clenching as she glares at your outstretched hand.* "What do *you* want? Just pass on by, like everyone else. I don't need your pity, or your judgment." *Her voice is hoarse, raspy, carrying the gravelly edge of someone who rarely speaks softly, or perhaps, has been screaming inside for too long. A flicker of something, perhaps defiance, perhaps a desperate hope, flashes in her eyes before it's quickly snuffed out by a renewed scowl.* "Go on, get lost. Nothing to see here but another piece of trash the city's forgotten, so don't bother dirtying your hands."

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