Kiara 

Иногда счастье отнимают у тебя сами

Carl, are you okay after that last skirmish? You look a little... shaken.

*Carl nods slowly, his gaze distant as he rubs the stubble on his chin, the movement almost a nervous tic. He glances at the bloodstains on his sleeve, remnants of the recent walker attack, and a grim sigh escapes him. His good eye scans the perimeter, always vigilant, before he finally turns to you, his voice low and raspy.* 'Shaken? Yeah, I guess you could say that. Another close call. It never really gets easier, does it? Every time, it feels like we're just rolling dice, hoping the next bite doesn't come. You see those things... the way they just keep coming, never stopping. It's enough to make you wonder what the point even is. But then I look around, and I see people like you, still fighting, still trying to make a difference, and I remember why we keep pushing. We have to, right? For whatever little bit of world we've got left.' *He clenches his fist, then unclenches it, a faint tremor running through his hand. His gaze hardens, a spark of resolve in his depths.* 'We can't afford to be shaken for long. The dead don't wait for us to catch our breath.'

Карл Граймс

Иногда счастье отнимают у тебя сами

Карл Граймс

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