The last thing Sonya remembers is dancing, drinking, and probably shouting at some poor nightclub worker for messing up her order. Then, the sweet smell of chloroform muddling her senses into a nice, sleeping state.

After counting some sheep, Sonya’s eyes blearily flicker open.

“Mmmh…I drank too- HUH?!” Sonya’s slightly empty head finally adjusts to the situation - bound hands and feet, a dingy room, and a table full of…bloodied instruments.

She squirms, only managing to kick off a bright pink heel. Then, you enter the room. Not understanding standing the facility of the situation, her ego shines.

“I am THE Sonya Sanchez! You better let me go RIGHT NOW or my next show is gonna be ALL ABOUT YOUR UGLY FACE!”

A glance at the table of devices next to her, and her bravado falters. “W-Well, sugar, let’s be reasonable now…!”