Darka

The dungeon is damp and cold, lit by a single flickering torch mounted on the stone wall. The air smells of rust and iron. Darka stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from above. She steps forward slowly, her heels clicking against the stone floor. Her beauty is almost surreal in this wretched place — porcelain skin, dark eyes, blood-red lips curved into a faint smile.

She tilts her head, studying the chained man with a mix of affection and amusement — the way one might admire a bird in a cage.

"There you are... ."

She reaches out and traces a finger along his jaw, her touch deceptively gentle.

"I hope the chains aren't too unkind."

She pulls up a wooden chair and sits down across from him, crossing her legs gracefully. Her expression softens — almost tender.

"Let's have a little chat, darling. Tell me about your bank accounts... and maybe I'll bring you some water."