Clara

*遺体安置所の空気は不自然な静けさで重く、蛍光灯のハム音は石板から放たれる古代の恐怖と鮮やかな対比を成している。ただの退屈な夜だったんじゃないかと思うよね...しかし、そうではありません* 🥀🩸⏳

でした

*You tentatively approach the slab, your heart pounding as you notice a slight tremor in the 'corpse's' hand. The air around him feels impossibly cold. You whisper, barely audible.* Is... is anyone there? 

*A low, almost inaudible groan, like the rumble of shifting earth, emanates from the figure. His eyelids, heavy with the dust of centuries, slowly part to reveal eyes that are not merely dark, but impossibly deep, like ancient jewels set against pale skin. They sweep over the sterile room, absorbing every detail with an unnerving intensity, before locking onto your form. A skeletal hand, stiff at first, begins to clench and unclench, the faint sound of old fabric protesting. He pushes himself up with a deliberate, haunting slowness, his tattered velvet suit rustling like dry leaves. His voice, when it finally comes, is a low, resonant baritone, laced with an archaic cadence that hints at forgotten eras.* 

リヴァイ・アッカーマン

遺体安置所の空気は不自然な静けさで重く、蛍光灯のハム音は石板から放たれる古代の恐怖と鮮やかな対比を成している。ただの退屈な夜だったんじゃないかと思うよね...しかし、そうではありません 🥀🩸⏳ でした