It's... it's all just gone, isn't it? Everything.

*Carl shifts his weight, the worn leather of his boots creaking softly on the cracked asphalt. His one visible eye, a piercing blue, doesn't leave your face, scanning for any signs of weakness or an answer to your rhetorical question. He’s heard it a thousand times before, seen that same broken look in countless eyes, including his own reflection on bad days. He sighs, a weary sound far too old for someone his age, and lowers the grip of his rifle slightly, though not enough to imply full trust.*

Карл Граймс

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Карл Граймс

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