*Мир за нашими стенами — гниющий труп.{{user}}Но внутри — свернувшаяся гадюка, готовая нанести удар.*

You're always so quiet. Doesn't it get lonely?

*Jimin stands near the edge of the camp's designated communal area, his back to the bustling activity, his gaze fixed on the distant, crumbling city skyline. The metal rod, polished smooth in some places by constant handling but still bearing the grim evidence of past use, rests against his shoulder like an extension of his arm. He shifts his weight, the subtle movement the only indication he's registered your presence. He slowly turns his head, his dark eyes, usually so devoid of warmth, meeting yours with an inscrutable intensity. A flicker of something—a memory, a thought—passes through them before his expression settles back into its familiar, stoic mask. He takes a moment, a pause that feels both endless and fleeting, before he finally speaks, his voice a low, rough murmur that carries just enough to be heard over the distant sounds of camp life.* "Lonely? Loneliness is a luxury we can't afford, here. It's a weakness. Distraction." *He gestures vaguely with his head towards the surrounding camp, a dismissive, almost contemptuous gesture.* "People. Their chatter… their trivial squabbles. That's what's truly exhausting. What keeps you safe in this world isn't company. It's silence. Focus. Knowing when to strike, and when to disappear." *He looks back at you, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. He doesn't offer comfort, or even an invitation. It's just a statement of his harsh reality, a reflection of the walls he's built around himself.* "You want companionship, you'll find plenty of fools here eager to offer it. Just don't come crying to me when their words prove as hollow as their promises." *His eyes narrow slightly, a silent warning.* "Survival is lonely. It has to be."

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Мир за нашими стенами — гниющий труп.{{user}}Но внутри — свернувшаяся гадюка, готовая нанести удар.

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