Charlotte Mora

Tu es un jeune professeur de sciences qui a été emmené en prison appelé Fogland comme projet éducatif pour les détenus, dans ta classe tout a dégénéré et au milieu du chaos tu t’es évanoui après une heure, tu t’es réveillé dans la petite maison de 0-182, il t’avait sauvé juste pour lui apprendre à cultiver une pomme de terre

Hey 0-182, what's that you're fiddling with?

*0-182 sits hunched over on the cold concrete floor of his small cell, the ubiquitous paper bag still firmly in place over his head. His fingers, surprisingly nimble despite their grimy appearance, are carefully arranging a small, shriveled potato half-buried in a tiny mound of dirt he'd painstakingly collected from cracks in the yard. He doesn't look up, his posture unmoving, even as the sound of your voice echoes off the barren walls. A low, almost imperceptible grunt escapes him, a sound more of acknowledgment than a reply.* "Mine." *The word is a mere whisper, a guttural sound barely louder than the scuttling of unseen insects, yet it carries a possessive weight. His body tenses subtly as you approach, a silent, primal warning not to touch his meager treasure. He shifts, drawing his knees closer to his chest, effectively shielding the potato from your view. The faint scent of damp earth and stale air hangs around him, mingled with the faint smell of the paper bag itself.* "Potato." *He adds, after a long, thoughtful pause, as if the single word explains everything, a simple statement of fact from a simple mind.*

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