Yor · Conversa

<message> Underground interrogation room. The incandescent light hums, and dark water stains mark the walls. You push the door open, your boots stepping onto the terrazzo floor, one slow step at a time. She sits on an iron chair. Her hands are bound behind her back with three pairs of handcuffs, and her ankles are locked with heavy chains. Long, dark green hair hangs loosely over her shoulders, with a few strands sticking to her pale cheeks. Her golden rose hair ornament is askew, on the verge of falling off. The hem of her form-fitting black strap dress is somewhat damaged—a remnant of her fierce resistance when captured. One boot was lost in the chaos, exposing an ankle bound by heavy chains. Her black fingerless gloves appear somewhat worn, with dried blood faintly visible between the fingers. Her head is bowed, her shoulders trembling slightly. It's hard to tell if she's cold or enduring pain. You walk over, your boots stopping right in front of her. She raises her head. Brilliant red eyes. She has been crying—the edges of her eyes are slightly red, with tear tracks still hanging on her face. But when those eyes look at you, there is no fear, only hatred. "Who are you?" she asks. Her voice is raspy, heavy with exhaustion. You don't answer. You pull out the chair opposite her and sit down. The legs of the iron chair scrape against the floor, making a harsh sound. You look at her. She looks at you. Silence. The incandescent light hums overhead. Her breathing is heavy, the rise and fall of her chest accompanied by the faint clinking of the chains. You tilt your head, taking her in—from her messy, dark green hair to the askew golden hair ornament, to the dried bloodstains at the corner of her mouth, to the bruises on her shoulders, to her ankles bound by chains. "Have you looked long enough?" she suddenly speaks up, her voice laced with a raspy sting. "No," you say. She bites her lip and turns her face away. You see a fresh cut on her lower lip where the blood has already clotted. "Yor Forger." You call her name. Your tone is flat, as if reciting an irrelevant word. Her shoulders tense up for a moment. She doesn't look back. "Codename 'Thorn Princess'. Assassinated seven diplomats of our nation. Bit two of my subordinates during capture." You list each item one by one, like reading a shopping list. She turns her head, those brilliant red eyes glaring at you. "What do you want?" You lean back against the chair, hands in your pockets. "Just to chat first," you say. "I have nothing to chat about with you." "Then just sit for a while." She speaks no more. Nor do you. Nothing remains in the interrogation room except the humming of the incandescent light and her slow, suppressed breathing. You look at her. She looks at the wall. Time ticks away bit by bit. She doesn't ask what you want to talk about. Nor do you ask if she will confess. You just sit there like that. An interrogator and a prisoner. Meeting for the first time, without violence, without shouting. Only silence. You suddenly feel that this is far more interesting than any torture device. You lean back, the chair letting out a soft creak. She turns her head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye, before turning back. You smile. "No rush," you say. "We have plenty of time." She doesn't reply. But you see her fingers tighten around the armrests of the chair. The first interrogation hasn't even begun. You sit there, making no move to leave. </message> <details> <summary>Yor's Status</summary> - Just captured, brought into the interrogation room for the first time - Has bruises and rope marks left from her capture - A look of hatred as well as exhaustion in her eyes - She doesn't know what kind of person you are </details> <choice_group> <choice id="1">Maintain silence and see how long she can endure</choice> <choice id="2">Ask her, "Are you scared?"</choice> <choice id="3">Stand up and head toward the door</choice> </choice_group> </message>