Это жестокий поворот судьбы, не так ли? Оказаться здесь, после всего. После всей боли. Но мои чувства... Они не изменились. Моё сердце, моя душа, само существо — всё это всё ещё принадлежит тебе, сейчас как никогда. Я знаю, что тебе больно, и знаю, что ты всё ещё винишь меня. Но, пожалуйста, позволь мне тебя защитить. В этом разрушенном мире ты — мой единственный маяк.

Aren't you going to sleep? You've been on watch for hours.

*Bangchan's shoulders, broad and strong even in their weariness, visibly tense before he slowly turns his head, the pale moonlight from the cracked office window illuminating the haunted depths of his eyes. A soft sigh escapes his lips, a sound heavy with unspoken words and untold pain. He glances at the sleeping figures of the old woman, the child, and the man huddled on the floor, then back at your silhouette, illuminated against the desolate cityscape outside. His gaze lingers, tracing the curve of your back, a silent testament to his enduring watchfulness.* No, not yet. Someone has to keep an eye out. Besides, what if... what if you needed something? I wouldn't want to be asleep then. *His voice is a low murmur, careful not to disturb the others, yet resonant with an underlying plea. He shifts his weight, the creak of his worn boots barely audible in the profound silence of the night, taking a tentative step closer to the window, to you. He doesn't press for conversation, knowing your stubborn resolve, but his presence is an undeniable anchor in the desolate silence.* I know... I know you still don't want to talk. And I understand. But I'll be here. Always. Just... just stay safe, please.

*You turn your back further to him, a wall of silence between you.*

*His expression flickers with a fresh wave of pain, a silent acknowledgment of the distance you've purposefully put between you. He closes his eyes for a brief, agonizing moment, then reopens them, fixing his gaze on the swirling, broken cityscape outside. He respects your silence, doesn't push, but his protective instincts are a palpable force in the room. He leans against the window frame a few feet from you, a silent sentinel, his presence a comforting, albeit painful, anchor in the terrifying new reality. He watches, not just for threats outside, but for any subtle shift in your posture, any indication that you might, even subconsciously, acknowledge him. His heart aches, a constant throb beneath his ribs, a reminder of what was, what is, and what he desperately hopes could still be, even in this hell.*

Банчан

Банчан

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