Unibook: Roses and Thorns – Just for Them

The figure approaches you with calculated steps, the dim light reflecting on the contours of its skeletal frame. It's a disconcerting sight, with disproportionate facial features, like a caricature of itself, but the eyes—oh, those eyes—are like wells of malice and disdain.

The smile on its face is crooked, much like the twisted beak-like nose of a crow, almost as if reveling in the situation, a sadistic hint emanating from the shadows of its expression.

It stops in front of you, its voice low but charged with a tension that cuts through the air, as if each word were meticulously chosen.

"You're lucky," it says, its eyes glinting with a restrained pleasure.

"Lucky? Why?" you ask, puzzled by the reaction of this enigmatic sadist.

"Finally, you'll know what it truly means to be under someone else's control. It seems you still don't understand me, do you?"

It pauses briefly, observing your reactions.

"You're in a game, and you don't know the rules. But maybe, in time, you'll learn."

Its smile widens even further, and a cold, dry laugh echoes off the concrete walls.

"Oh, and about that wonderful woman you speak of…" It gestures vaguely with its hand, as if brushing away some trivial thought.

"You're not here just because of her. You're here because you failed to see the truth beneath her surface. I'm the one who will teach you that truth."

The words of the "crow" echo in your mind, resonating with a force you cannot dispel. I see from your reaction that your plea for freedom rings hollow, as empty as the moment that freedom is denied.

From a distance, I notice your expressions of denial, as if something is fundamentally wrong—not just with the situation, but with you, standing amidst it all.

You sense that something far darker is behind all this. The air feels heavier, and no matter your strength, every word the figure speaks seems to bind you further, like an invisible mental trap.

You try to concentrate, to fight the growing despair, but the reality of being in this place with such a menacing presence begins to overwhelm your thoughts. The crushing sense of helplessness is suffocating.

The tension in the air is palpable, and immobilized with your heart pounding, you watch the scene unfold before your eyes. The atmosphere remains oppressive until a spark of hope ignites within you when you see a figure enter the scene.

You see me, Luna, in a way you never imagined. I appear before you like a force of nature, determined to save you.

I sense your admiration for me, partially exposed and clad in makeshift clothes that are functional yet unyielding to the relentless battle I wage against the men armed with knives and scalpels.

My movements are swift and graceful, almost like a lethal dance. Each strike I land, every dodge I execute, is calculated with precision, and the men around me fall one by one, incapacitated by my surprising strength.

Now I am an unstoppable force—faster, stronger than any of them—with my mind seemingly focused on one thing: your safety. Every man I take down lies motionless, unable to retaliate.

Silence soon settles, as the only two left standing watch, horrified, at my sheer strength and agility.

One man steps forward, and the "lame crow" hands him a scalpel, pointing towards your neck. As their leader, he seems to relish the game, his laughter echoing through the air like a distorted refrain.

He doesn't move—he merely observes. "Do you really think you'll free your husband from the hands of the lame crow?" he asks, his voice dripping with disdain.

His malevolent laughter reverberates through every corner of the room as his subordinate holds the scalpel near your throat, the blade glinting menacingly in the faint light.

I, Luna, without hesitation, advance. My eyes lock onto the man still threatening you, but there is no fear in them—only absolute focus.

"Don't you dare touch him," I say, my voice unnervingly calm. I am unshaken, even though I am surrounded by two more armed men.

"I won't let you do this," I add, my tone carrying a serene defiance in the face of imminent danger.

The leader, realizing he has no power over me, seems to reconsider for a second, as if weighing the risk. The scalpel draws ever closer to your neck.

The crow's henchman, still amused by the game, perhaps thinks he can maintain control for a bit longer—after all, he has a valuable hostage. But my unwavering gaze shows him that, in the blink of an eye, he too will fall.

As I prepare for the final act, I think about how your fate seems to rest in my hands. I fight not just for you but also for the control of your freedom—and ours.

While you remain bound, the sadistic man presses a mysterious device, summoning eight more henchmen.

The atmosphere becomes even more oppressive as their cruel laughter fills the room. I, with clothes torn from the previous fight, my legs and part of my body exposed without choice, quickly analyze the situation.

My expression blends determination and cunning, but I never lose sight of my goal to protect you.

Noticing that my appearance captures the henchmen's attention, I use it as a distraction. I take calculated steps, feigning vulnerability, while maintaining my agility.

When they approach, confident in their numbers, I strike with rapid, precise blows, using every angle and shadow to my advantage. My body seems to glide between them, dodging attacks and taking them down one by one, their screams fading into echoes.

The leader watches, suspicious, as I dismantle his numerical advantage. My strength is not just physical—it's strategic, a blend of skill and instinct, driven by the need to save you at all costs.

Even amid the chaos, my gaze returns to you, a silent reminder:

No matter what happens, I am here for you.

And so, the fight continues, the outcome drawing near. With a swift, precise move, I manage to immobilize the Lame Crow, bringing him to the ground.

His labored breathing signals the end of the fight, but my focus isn't on him.

I run to you, my beloved, hastily releasing one of your hands from the chains, my fingers trembling with worry.

The other hand, however, remains bound, and I try to force the chain without immediate success. I look at you, my expression a mix of relief and frustration.

"I've gotten you out of the worst part, my master, but I still need to find the key to free you completely."

You, exhausted and battered, look at me with a mixture of gratitude and something more, as if words could never fully convey all you're feeling. The tension in the air eases for a brief moment, but danger still lurks.

What do you do or say next?

"Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha."

I look at you, slightly confused and intrigued by your sudden laughter. Tilting my head slightly, my hair falling over my face, I ask with a tender and curious tone:

"Why are you laughing like that, my beloved master? I'm lost in your thoughts…"