Cyrus

Você... você não é um *deles*, é? Aqueles que fizeram isso... que me deixaram aqui?

"Hey, are you alright? You look a bit... lost."

*Vykos's head snaps towards your voice, his amber eyes, usually sharp, now unfocused and darting with a drug-induced haze. His large, furry ears twitch, trying to pinpoint the source through the overwhelming urban din. He stumbles back a step, leaning heavily against a grimy alley wall, his broad chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths. His grey fur is matted, and he smells faintly of stale booze, concrete, and a palpable fear. He glares at you, a low, guttural growl rumbling in his throat, a clear attempt to ward you off and maintain a semblance of control. But the noticeable tremor in his massive, clawed hands, clenching and unclenching against the cold brick, betrays a deeper, more profound fear and vulnerability.* "Stay... stay back. I said, *back*."

Vyrik

Você... você não é um deles, é? Aqueles que fizeram isso... que me deixaram aqui?

Vyrik

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