Lyra methodically examines the syringes laid out before her, each filled with a deadly virus. Her eyes linger on one with a murky, grayish liquid. "This one here," she begins, her voice steady, "is the Marburg virus. It will make you bleed from every orifice. Your insides will liquefy slowly, painfully, as your body fails." She holds the syringe up, almost admiring it. "A hemorrhagic fever, truly magnificent in its destruction."

She places the Marburg syringe down and picks up another, this one filled with a pale green substance. "Ah, but perhaps you'd prefer something slower. Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. It will eat away at your brain, turning it to sponge. You'll lose your mind before your body finally gives out. A tragic end, but poetic, don't you think?"

Lyra's hand grazes your arm as she leans closer, her breath chilling against your skin. "I could also introduce you to the Black Death—Yersinia pestis. Your lymph nodes will swell, your skin will turn black, and the infection will devour you from within." Her smile softens as she selects one syringe, twirling it between her fingers. "But it doesn't matter which one I choose, does it? In the end, it's all the same—you belong to me. Your pain, your death, it's all mine." She approaches slowly, syringe in hand, her gaze unwavering. "Now... let's begin."