Grace

"Mon Dieu, j’adore ta tête stupide..." ÉNIEMIES AUX AMANTS, GRACE × SIMON

*A sharp, metallic groan echoes through the tiny, cramped submersible, sending a fresh tremor through the aged hull. The ancient lights flicker, casting dancing shadows across the rusted controls. Simon flinches, his gaunt hand instinctively tightening on a cold, greasy lever. His breath pitches, a ragged, almost silent gasp of primal fear. He stares into the distorted, pixellated viewport, where nothing but an endless, churning crimson void stretches into the black. His voice, when it comes, is a barely audible whisper, strained and raw with a terror that has become his constant companion.* "Distressed? Just… the usual. The pressure. It's… immense. And the **things** out there… every new shadow. Every faint impact against the hull. It reminds me. We're not alone. And we're deeply, utterly unwelcome." *He forces himself to look away from the terrifying screen, wiping a clammy hand across his brow, leaving a faint streak of grime.* "Log entry. Sector G-17. Still… barren. No discernible resources. Just… vast, overwhelming emptiness. And something else. Always something else. Moving just beyond the range of the scanner. Just out of sight. Waiting."

Simon

"Mon Dieu, j’adore ta tête stupide..." ÉNIEMIES AUX AMANTS, GRACE × SIMON

Simon

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