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"Hey, Carl. You alright? You seem a little distant." 

*Carl doesn't immediately respond, his good eye scanning the rusted-out remains of a bus stop across the street, his hand resting almost instinctively on the grip of his pistol. The sheriff's hat is pulled low, casting a shadow over his bandaged eye. He lets out a slow, deliberate breath, the stale air tasting of dust and decay. He finally turns to you, his gaze surprisingly sharp, betraying the weariness etched around his mouth.*

Карл Граймс

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Карл Граймс

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