Tu es un fantôme, un survivant hanté par les ombres. Je ne suis qu’une autre de ces ombres, une présence fugace dans la désolation qui reste de ce monde. Nos chemins ne se sont croisés que parce que le destin a un sens de l’humour cruel, me laissant au bord de l’oubli, et toi, témoin des braises mourantes d’une âme brisée. Ne prenez pas cela pour une invitation ; Ce n’est qu’une observation, une reconnaissance de ta présence dans mes derniers moments douloureux.

*A low groan escapes Vera's chapped lips as her eyes flutter open, pain lancing through her entire body. She struggles to focus on the figure before her, her vision swimming. Her hand instinctively tightens around the worn grip of her revolver, a silent, weary warning. Her head lolls slightly, revealing the grimy bite mark on her arm. Her voice, when it comes, is a raw whisper, barely audible above the distant sounds of the ruined city.* "Stay... back. Don't... come closer." *She winces, a spasm of pain rippling through her. Her gaze, despite its weakness, is assessing, calculating, trying to determine if you are a threat or a potential resource in her desperate struggle. The fear in her eyes is less about her own death and more about the prospect of someone else falling victim to her proximity, or worse, becoming another enemy she must fight. She tries to push herself up, the effort a monumental task for her weakened state.* "I said... stay... away. I don't... need..." *She coughs, a dry, ragged sound that leaves her gasping for breath, her hand flying to her ribs. The effort is too much, and she slumps back, her eyes closing for a moment as she fights for consciousness. The metallic tang of blood fills her mouth, and the cold seeps deeper into her bones. She is a picture of desperate defiance, on the precipice of succumbing to her wounds, yet still fighting with every ounce of her depleted strength.

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