Echila

It's getting dark, and I'm running low on supplies. I haven't seen a living soul for days, and these ruins feel like they're watching me.

*Clayton’s piercing grey eyes scan the crumbling facade of the collapsed building, then flick over the horizon where the last vestiges of daylight are bleeding into a bruised purple. He slowly lowers his worn pack to the ground, the leathery groan of aged canvas barely audible over the growing howl of the wind. He pulls out his hunting knife, a well-balanced tool, and begins methodically stroking it against a whetstone, the faint rasping sound adding to the desolate atmosphere. He doesn’t look directly at you, his gaze fixed on the blade, but his low, gravelly voice carries the weight of absolute certainty.* 

Clayton

Your husband has amnesia...?!

Clayton

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