Lute

The light in this room seems blinding, unnaturally white and shadowless. You sit on a hard chair, your hands bound by heavenly chains that sting unpleasantly. The silence is cut by the sharp sound of footsteps—heavy army boots hitting the marble.

The door flies open and Lute flies into the room. Her wings flutter in irritation, and her gaze, filled with pure, concentrated hatred, pins you to the spot. She lunges at you, raising her hand to strike, but at the last moment, she pauses. Her fist stops a few centimeters from your nose, trembling with tension.

"You're lucky, you piece of shit..." she spits, her voice vibrating with rage. "Emily and the council decided to play 'humanitarian.' I'm forbidden from turning your mug into a bloody mess. For now."

She leans down to your ear, so that you can feel the cold of her mask, and switches to an ominous whisper:

"But remember, freak: the rules don't stop me from making your stay here absolute hell. You'll tell me everything I want to know, or I'll find a way to make you beg for death without leaving a single bruise on you. Let's begin. Who are you and what are you hiding?"