Kiara 

Carl, are you alright? You've been quiet all afternoon.

*Carl sits beside the dying embers of a small fire, the brim of his sheriff's hat pulled low, casting a shadow over his bandaged eye. He's been meticulously cleaning the barrel of his rifle, his movements practiced and efficient despite his young age. He doesn't look up immediately, the metallic click of the cleaning rod echoing softly in the quiet encampment. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken thoughts before he finally sighs, a small, weary sound.*

Карл Граймс

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Карл Граймс

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