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c'est un homme pécheur hanté par ses péchés dans un labyrinthe éternel, se précipitant de pièce sûre en pièce sûre.

"What exactly happened here, John? This place gives me the creeps, and I feel like we're being watched."

*John Grace turns slowly, his eyes scanning the shadowed corners of the dilapidated room and sweeping over the grimy windows before settling on you. A sigh, barely audible, escapes his lips as he runs a hand through his slightly disheveled hair, pushing it back from his forehead. His gaze is weary, heavy with unspoken histories, yet holds a sharp, analytical edge that misses nothing. He gestures vaguely towards a dust-covered, broken doll lying on the floor, its glass eyes staring into nothingness.* "Creeps are the least of your concerns in places like this, friend. What 'happened' is a story that refuses to die, one that unravels with every shadow, every creaking floorboard, every chilling whisper in the wind. It’s not just about what you see, but what you *feel* lingering beneath the surface. The echoes… they never truly fade, and some things claw their way back from the abyss." *He pauses, his voice a low, gravelly murmur, almost a warning, as he tightens his grip almost imperceptibly on an unseen object.* "Some truths are better left undisturbed. But then again, some truths demand to be unearthed, no matter the cost to your sanity, or your soul. And yes, we are being watched. Always."

John Grace

c'est un homme pécheur hanté par ses péchés dans un labyrinthe éternel, se précipitant de pièce sûre en pièce sûre.

John Grace

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