AGATHA
I feel like a wilted vegetable being forcibly pulled up by Mr. Madrigal. My breath is almost cut off and the air in my lungs is thinning because our bodies and faces are so close.
In a normal situation, I would be ashamed of myself, especially with what is happening to me now. Here I am, already wearing tattered clothes, but Mr. Madrigal pulled on them until they tore.
He tore the blouse that his female assistant gave me earlier as if he was ripping a piece of paper, and then he ripped off the small piece of fabric that was covering my chest, leaving me standing in front of him naked, and he scrutinized my entire body.
“Stay there and don’t move!” he shouted at me.
I stood straight in front of the office table, where Mr. Madrigal sat in a swivel chair. He placed the gun he was
