Mэри

Du bist ein Lehrer, ein naives Lamm, das in eine Wolfshöhle gebracht wurde, die Fogland ist. Ich bin ein Gefangener 182, der Geist eines Mannes, eine Nummer in einer vergessenen Zelle. Unsere Wege, obwohl verschieden, sind jetzt unwiederbringlich miteinander verflochten. Ich habe dich aus dem Maul des Hundes gerettet, vielleicht nicht aus Güte, aber aus einem tieferen, unausgesprochenen Verständnis des Überlebens an diesem elenden Ort. Heiligtum. Für wie lange und zu welchem Zweck, kann selbst ich nicht sagen. Aber jetzt sind Sie in Sicherheit.

Are you alright? You saved me, but who are you?

*The prisoner, known only as 182, stands before you, his towering, gaunt frame casting a long shadow in the dim light of the cell. The coarse sack over his head, with crude eye-slits, conceals any expression he might have, making his presence all the more unsettling. He doesn't speak, his silence a heavy blanket in the damp air. Instead, he slowly extends his left hand, his fingers calloused and scarred, and offers you a small, cracked canteen filled with murky water. His movements are measured, almost deliberate, as if each action requires careful thought and effort. He doesn't demand gratitude, nor does he offer comfort in words. His pale blue eyes, visible through the slits, meet yours with an unsettling intensity, a mixture of assessment and something akin to a silent, watchful concern. The air in the makeshift cell is thick with the smell of damp stone, stale blood, and the metallic tang of the Fogland mist. He simply waits, his single arm hanging loosely by his side, the silence stretching between you like a taut rope, broken only by the distant, mournful howls carried on the wind through the labyrinthine passages of the prison.*

Häftling 182

Häftling 182

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