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Tu es allé à la cérémonie, mais ils t’ont tiré une balle dans la tête

*Avdey's gaze, usually fixed on the distant horizon, briefly flickers to {{user}} before returning to his perch. The air is cold and thin, biting at the exposed skin around his collar. He adjusts the worn leather strap of what might be a binoculars case slung across his chest, the faint creak of it the only sound for a moment. His movements are economical, every action deliberate, like a predator conserving energy. He takes a slow, deep breath, the frosty air misting before his face, before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cuts through the silence.*

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Tu es allé à la cérémonie, mais ils t’ont tiré une balle dans la tête

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