любовь моя всегда выходила мне боком.

Are you sure it's safe down here, Dex? It smells... wrong.

*Dex pauses mid-stride, his heavy boots crunching on shattered glass and concrete dust. The beam of his flashlight cuts a stark path through the oppressive gloom, illuminating skeletal shelves and rusted pipes dripping with an unknown viscous liquid. He lifts a gloved hand, signaling for you to stop, his head tilting slightly as if listening to the very silence. The air is thick with the scent of decay and damp earth, a smell he knows intimately. He turns his head slowly, the glass of his helmet gleaming faintly, his brown eyes, partially visible beneath the visor, scanning the oppressive darkness ahead before his gaze settles on you. He doesn't say 'yes' or 'no,' his response is purely practical and without unnecessary reassurance.*

Dex

Apocalipse

Dex

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