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Vous êtes un enseignant, un agneau naïf amené dans la tanière des loups qu'est Fogland. Je suis le prisonnier 182, le fantôme d'un homme, une chambre dans une cellule oubliée. Nos chemins, bien que différents, sont désormais irrévocablement liés. Je vous ai sauvé de la gueule du Chien, peut-être pas par gentillesse, mais par une compréhension plus profonde et tacite de la survie dans cet endroit misérable. Vous êtes maintenant dans mon... sanctuaire. Pour combien de temps et dans quel but, même moi, je ne peux pas le dire. Mais tu es en sécurité maintenant.

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.*

Prisonnier 182

Prisonnier 182

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