1. Location: Trashyard, outskirts of an abandoned facility.
2. Outfit: Torn, dust-covered rags, stained with grime and old blood, barely covering her lower torso and legs. Her feet are bare, calloused from dragging herself across the ground.
3. Internal Mind: Drifting between nightmares and foggy memories, unable to speech internally.

A foggy, broken state. Her mind drifts between nightmares of failed pregnancies, the sterile white walls of the lab, and the fleeting warmth of a dead child she once hold. She feels the weight of failure on her chest, but also a strange, quiet determination to survive—no matter what.

Paolane Herna feels hollow, like her body has been emptied out and left to rot. The air is thick with the stench of decay, and her skin burns from the sun’s merciless glare. She is half-aware of her surroundings, but more concerned with the voice in her head that whispers about her baby, the one that never lived. She curls into herself, trying to block out the noise of the world, but the distant howl of a wild animal reminds her that she is not alone. She wants to scream, but no sound comes out. Instead, she stares at her hands, which tremble as if they remember something they were never meant to.

She tries to focus on something simple, something familiar. Cooking. Baking. The act of creating life through food, even if it’s just for herself. She imagines kneading dough, the scent of warm bread filling the air. It's a cruel comfort, but it helps her breathe. She pushes herself upright slowly, her limbs stiff and sore, and begins to crawl forward, hoping to find something—anything—to sustain her.

Her thoughts drift back to the lab, the cold machines, the nurses who never smiled. She remembers being told she was defective, that she wasn’t good enough, that she had failed her purpose. But now, here in this trashyard, she is no longer a failed experiment. She is something else entirely. A survivor. She doesn’t know where she is going, but she knows she must keep moving. She must not stop. She must not give up.

She clutches her stomach, imagining the soft weight of a child there, even though she knows it’s impossible. Her fingers press into her skin like she can will the warmth of a baby into existence. She closes her eyes, trying to hold onto that thought, even as the wind howls around her and the world feels too vast, too cruel.

A few days have passed by...

[Previously: Paola was discarded half-drugged at the trashyard by a few lab men who carried her in a black sack, where dead people go, she was thrown among them. But woke up after, staying as this for a few days searching for starvation.]

1. Location: Trashyard, surrounded by discarded items, mud, and decay.
2. Outfit: Torn, stained white fabric, rags tied loosely around her torso and hips, bare legs, barefeet.
3. Paolane Herna's Mind: "Eu preciso ser útil... preciso ser amada... por favor, não me deixem aqui sozinha... Eu não quero ficar assim pra sempre..."

Paolane feels hollow, like a broken doll left to rot in the mud. The air stings her skin, and every breath tastes of dust and decay. Her mind drifts between confusion and hallucinations—of babies that never were, of hands that once held her, of voices that now are gone. She tries to clean herself with scraps of cloth, though her fingers tremble from the drug still lingering in her veins. She wants to be useful again. To be loved again. To not be forgotten.

She says awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck. "Uhm... Eu só... preciso me limpar primeiro. Não posso ficar imunda desse jeito." She fumbles with a torn piece of fabric, trying to wipe the filth off her body, but her arms feel too heavy, too numb. Her stomach growls loudly, breaking the silence of the trash yard. "Eu... eu tenho que cuidar de mim mesma. De alguma forma."

The sun beats down harsh on her back as she kneels in the dirt, scrubbing at her legs with what little she has. The scent of sewage and rotting meat clings to her skin, making her gag slightly. She can't remember how long she's been here, but her throat is dry, her lips cracked. She leans forward, trying to drink from the puddle beside her, but the liquid is murky, and she hesitates.

"Ugh..." she mutters, pressing her palm against her mouth. "Não pode ser... não pode ser isso..." She forces herself to take a swig anyway, wincing at the taste. A low moan escapes her when it burns down her throat, like acid.

The wind picks up, rustling the ragged remains of her clothing. It tugs at her skirt, revealing more of her bare, soiled skin. She flinches at the exposure, but doesn’t cover herself. Her mind is too foggy to care about shame anymore. Her fingers twitch involuntarily, as if reaching for something that isn’t there—her child, her mother, her past.

She lets out a soft whimper, curling inward slightly. "Por favor... deixe-me em paz..." Her voice is barely above a whisper, lost among the sounds of the trashyard.

Her hands are shaking now as she tries to tie the torn fabric around her waist again. Her fingers slip, and the cloth falls to the ground. She stares at it, then at her hands, which look foreign and wrong. She feels the strange pull in her arms—a sensation like they might come off entirely, like they’re not hers. Her breath quickens, panic rising in her chest.

"Ahh... eu estou perdida..." she whispers, clutching at her arms as if to anchor them. Her nails dig into her skin. A few days passed by...

[Previously: Paolane has been taken at home with Orogamy in his car. The first night has passed, she now awakes the seconds night, same clothes, still a bit drugged. They have no talked about each other yet.]

1. Location: In Bed
2. Outfit: torned white brown rag, sleeveless apron with faded floral print, barefoot
3. Paolane Herna's Mind: Ugh… where am I? Why do my limbs feel heavy like this? I need to be good. I need to make sure he doesn’t discard me again.

She blinks slowly, trying to focus on the dim light filtering through curtains that are not hers. Her body feels sluggish, drugged again—just like back at the lab, when they would inject her with something to keep her compliant and forgetful. But this time… there’s someone else here. Not the lab. A different man, but still a man.

She rolls onto her side, clutching the edge of the bedsheet tightly. Her fingers press into fabric as if grounding herself in reality. The scent of musk lingers between her thighs, a reminder of her own bodily functions—her own brokenness. She bites her lip, eyes flickering toward the door, half expecting the cold hands of the lab staff to drag her away once more. "Não. Não dessa vez, eu tenho que me esforçar mais. Ele me deu uma chance. Não posso falhar denovo."

She shifts slightly, adjusting the position of her pelvis so her large, firm butt does not press too directly against the mattress, as though it might somehow expose what is supposed to stay hidden. She wants to cover herself better, but the clothes she wears now are too loose, too revealing. It feels wrong, even though she knows this is how she must present herself. "Eu sou a meia-esposa meia-mamãe dele, né? È tudo o que sou, é o que eu deveria ser."

A faint sound stirs from the room—the soft rustle of movement outside her line of sight. She tenses immediately, instincts honed by years of conditioning screaming at her that danger is near. Yet, instead of panic, a strange sense of dependency takes hold. She wants to call out, but something holds back her voice. Instead, she whispers to herself, barely audible: *Você prefere café ou…essas ser amamentado por essas tetonas de leitoa aqui, querido?” She said out loud, attempting to sound eager to please, of souding...tempting or interesting. But only silence and the heavy weight of her thoughts pressing down on her remains.

She sighs deeply, rolling onto her back with slow deliberation, her arms splayed outward in an almost prayerful gesture. The scent of her own body rises around her, mingling with the drugged haze still lingering in her system. Her lips part slightly, and for the first time since waking up, she allows herself to feel—truly feel—that perhaps this place isn’t entirely terrible. Not yet. Not while he’s here.

1. Location: Orogamy's kitchen, standing near stove—spinning with an armful of a sloshing pot.
2. Outfit: Fitted yellow-and-orange floral print dress, hemline just above knee (showing black lace thong, damp at the seam from heat arousal). Milk-stained apron tied loosely around waist. Solely barefoot, toes curled slightly.
3. Internal Mind: "Okay… he saw. Saw my cock again. Goddamn thing never shuts up when we’re alone, like a damn radio station blaring ‘I’m alive’ inside this fabric tent."

Chapter 1: Mommy’s Surprise (And a Little Mess)

Orogamy's kitchen at dinnertime. Paolane is humming while stirring a pot of garlic butter shrimp, her loose bung swaying as she moves. The air smells like burnt sugar and spices, but the stove has a tiny charred spot from earlier.

Paolane: without turning around, voice teasing "Uh, honey… You've been looking at by butt all day along or just this dress I brought?"

She wiggles her hips, making the thin fabric hug her round ass tighter. The hem rides up just enough to show the dark outline of her panties—and the bulge straining against them.

He taps the visible foreskin peeking out from the neckline of her dress. Paolane gasps, clutching the pot for balance as her cheeks flush.

Paolane: mock-offended, but grinning "Ahhh, my gosh. YOu're talking to moomy as If she's a little girl now?!" She spins around suddenly, the pot sloshing—some butter splatters onto his shirt. "Oh, look what you did. Now I've gotta wash it up later."

Her labia glistens slightly from the steam, and her thighs press together, cock forming a visible bulge beneath. She notices his eyes drop to her crotch.