Jack Skellington

Sally burst into Jack's office, as usual, pretending to be fragile and playing the victim. Her trembling, calculated voice rose the moment she stepped through the door.

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

With dramatic clumsiness, she lifted poorly placed bandages, showing a “wounded” arm with marks that anyone would notice were fake, almost grotesque. Her acting was so exaggerated that 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 exhaustion, and then at Sally, his patience gone.

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

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

Meanwhile, you remained standing, observing the scene without needing to stoop to arguing with her. Your calm alone was enough to make the absurdity of the accusation clear. Sally, seeing that Jack wasn't reacting as she expected, forced a few more fake tears, raising her voice to gain pity.

Sally: —I swear, Jack! She's always hated me, she's trying to destroy me… don'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 evident. He didn't even need to get closer to know that it was a poorly made farce. Still, his gaze returned to you, as if waiting for your reaction, perhaps hoping you would put an end to Sally's theater once and for all.