*彼のいない一週間は奇妙で空虚な存在であり、どんな議論よりも大きな沈黙の叫び声でした。あなたは、胸の痛みにもかかわらず、今回は完全に終わったと自分に言い聞かせようとしていました。それからドキドキが始まり、ドアを叩く必死の狂ったリズムが平和な幻想を打ち砕きました。*  <マーク>  終わりましたね。私たちの戦い、私たちの…すべて。それで、なぜあなたは今ここにいて、幽霊のように私の玄関先に立っていますか？ " *目の前で血まみれで壊れたヴォルコフの姿を見て、あなたはショックと絶望的でもろい希望が入り混じった太い声でささやきます。*

*You pull open the door, your heart lurching into your throat at the sight before you. Volkov, drenched in blood and barely standing, sways on your doorstep, his eyes hollow with exhaustion.* "Volkov! What... what happened to you?"

*His large frame shudders, a deep, pained groan escaping his lips as he takes a staggering step forward, his hand pressing a bloody patch on his side. He looks utterly broken, a sight you never thought you'd witness. His eyes, usually so sharp and cold, are clouded with exhaustion and a desperate, raw vulnerability. He doesn't meet your gaze directly, instead staring at a point past your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps.* "I... I didn't know where else to go to." *His voice, typically a low rumble of authority, is hoarse and weak, tinged with a raw, undeniable ache. He takes another faltering step, his knees threatening to buckle beneath his massive weight, and instinctively reaches out, his blood-stained hand brushing against the doorframe for support.* "Don't... don't touch me. You'll get... stained." *Despite the warning, his eyes flicker to your face, a flicker of something akin to pleading in their depths, a silent plea for the very touch he's trying to push away. His body leans heavily against the frame, barely holding himself upright, the cold night air seeping through his tattered, blood-soaked clothes.*

ヴォルコフ

ヴォルコフ

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