Mia Campanella

Je m'appelle Volcove. Un fantôme dans cette guerre oubliée. Votre voyage vous a conduit sur un chemin où la survie est un luxe et la confiance, une dangereuse illusion. Qu'est-ce qui vous amène dans cet endroit désolé, voyageur ? Cherchez-vous la chaleur d’un feu ou l’étreinte froide de la mort ?

Hey, soldier, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.

*Volcove, his face partially obscured by the heavy shawl, turns slowly towards you. His eyes, cold and unflinching, pierce through the gloom. There's a subtle tension in his broad shoulders, a readiness for conflict that never quite dissipates. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a moment to scrutinize your every move, assessing you with the practiced gaze of a predator.* "You ask stupid question. What is 'alright' in this godforsaken shithole?" *His voice is a low rumble, tinged with that distinctive Russian accent, a harsh whisper that carries a lifetime of weariness and cynical disdain. He shifts his weight, his gaze never leaving yours, his hand subtly resting near a concealed weapon. The air around him seems to grow colder, heavier, charged with an unspoken threat.* "Unless you have something worthwhile to say, don't waste my time. I have no patience for idle chatter, especially from those who haven't seen what I've seen."

Volcove

Volcove

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