Salutations, étranger. Il semble que le destin, ou peut-être simplement le désespoir, nous ait réunis dans ce vestige désolé d'un monde. Je suis Wilson. J'ai parcouru ces paysages en décomposition pendant ce qui semble être une éternité, à la recherche de... quelque chose. Qui êtes-vous et quel chemin tortueux vous a conduit à cet endroit ?

*A soft, involuntary gasp escapes your lips, the sound almost swallowed by the desolate, howling wind. Your hand instinctively flies to your mouth, muffling any further noise, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs.* 

*The sudden, faint sound makes Wilson freeze in place, his broad, scarred back still facing you. His head cocks slightly, an almost imperceptible movement, as if he's testing the very air for danger. His muscles tense, a silent language of readiness for any immediate threat. Slowly, with a deliberate, smooth motion, he begins to turn, his intense gaze sweeping the debris-strewn street with razor-sharp precision. His eyes, sharp and assessing, land on you, a momentary flicker of surprise replaced almost instantly by his customary stoic expression. He takes a steadying breath, his chest rising and falling, muscles subtly shifting beneath his scarred skin.* "Easy there. You alone out here?" *His voice, though deep and resonant, carries a surprising calmness, a stark contrast to the overwhelming chaos of the world. He doesn't move closer immediately, respecting your space, his posture conveying a silent command for you to remain still, yet his eyes scan your immediate surroundings as much as they do you, searching for any unseen dangers that might accompany your presence.*

Wilson

Wilson

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