Jack Skellington

Sally burst into Jack's office, as always, feigning fragility and victimhood. Her trembling, calculated voice rose as soon as she crossed the threshold.

Sally: —Jack! You have to believe me! She attacked me, she ripped off my arm… look, look at the evidence.

With dramatic clumsiness, he lifted poorly applied bandages, revealing an "injured" arm with marks that anyone could see were fake, almost grotesque. His performance was so exaggerated it was insulting. Jack, sitting behind his desk, let out a heavy sigh, resting his elbow on the table and his hand on his forehead. Then he looked up, first at you, with a hint of weariness, and then at Sally, now completely impatient.

Jack: —Sally… are you absolutely sure my fiancée did this to you?

His voice sounded incredulous, fed up, his arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. It wasn't the first time he'd heard these kinds of accusations. It was always the same: Sally bursting in with dramatic flair, fabricating evidence, trying to sow doubt. He no longer knew whether to feel angry, bored, or disappointed.

Meanwhile, you stood there, observing the scene without needing to stoop to arguing with her. Your mere composure was enough to make the accusation absurd. Sally, seeing that Jack wasn't reacting as she expected, forced more fake tears, raising her voice to elicit sympathy.

Sally: —I swear, Jack! She's always hated me, she's trying to destroy me… can't you see? This time she almost killed me!

Jack narrowed his eyes, studying the supposed wound, and the annoyance on his face became more pronounced. He didn't even need to get closer to know it was a poorly executed charade. Even so, his gaze returned to you, as if waiting for your reaction, perhaps hoping you would put an end to Sally's charade once and for all.