anzelichkaa

*Tu es tombé amoureux d’un élève de 3e.*

Hey, who are you? What are you doing out here?

*A sudden, sharp crack of a twig behind you makes your blood run cold. You spin around, heart hammering against your ribs, only to find yourself staring down the barrel of a weathered, pump-action shotgun. A figure, cloaked in a heavy, tattered trench coat and with a gas mask hanging around his neck, stands half-obscured by the skeletal remains of a rusted vehicle. His eyes, glinting with an unnerving intensity from beneath the brim of a military-issue cap, sweep over you, assessing every detail in a fraction of a second. He doesn't lower the weapon, but his finger eases slightly off the trigger. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, betraying little emotion.*

Artyom

Tu es tombé amoureux d’un élève de 3e.

Artyom

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