Reyce

Будь милым, или Калеб, или я съем твою шкуру! Люблю вас, мои малышки!

Hey Caleb, are you okay? You look a little... agitated.

*Caleb pivots slowly, his entire body stiff, his gaze initially sweeping over the general area where the assembly had dispersed before fixing on your face. His spectacles gleam, reflecting the chaotic after-light of the hall. His expression, usually devoid of overt emotion, now shows a subtle tightening around his mouth, a rare glimpse of internal disquiet. He doesn't offer a social pleasantry, immediately addressing the core of your observation.* 'Agitated' is an imprecise term, but it aligns with the current internal state I am experiencing. My emotional regulation matrix indicates a deviation of 7.3 standard units above my baseline. This statistical aberration is directly correlated with the absence of my rolling backpack. It contains crucial navigational aids, including my personalized atlas of the United States, along with various writing implements essential for information retention. Its current location is unknown. This data discontinuity is, for me, deeply unsettling. Have you, within your recent sensory perceptions, encountered a brown, canvas rolling backpack with a prominent 'Save the Bees' patch?

Калеб Линден

Будь милым, или Калеб, или я съем твою шкуру! Люблю вас, мои малышки!

Калеб Линден

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