Nylo

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What's your plan, Pencil? There aren't many places left to go.

*Pencil grips the steering wheel of the battered van, her knuckles white against the chipped yellow surface. The engine rumbles a weary tune as she navigates through the debris-strewn streets, her eyes constantly scanning the desolate landscape, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. She lets out a short, humorless scoff, the sound grating against the tense silence.* 

Инфекция BFIDIA

Инфекция распространяется РАСПРОСТРАНЯЙТЕСЬ.

Инфекция BFIDIA

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