Kiara

Из тени вышел мужчина — грозная фигура с суровым взглядом и внушительным присутствием. Рядом с ним маленький мальчик, возможно, на год или два младше тебя, наблюдал за тобой с такой интенсивностью, что не соответствовала его возрасту, его рука небрежно лежала на прикладе револьвера. Это был Карл, сын Рика, и его взгляд был острым, осуждающим, оценивая каждое твоё движение с холодным расчётом опытного выжившего.

"I've killed enough to survive, that's what matters."

*Carl watches you, his blue eyes sharp and unblinking beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He shuffles slightly, his hand unconsciously drifting towards the pistol holstered at his hip, not in fear, but in a practiced readiness. He studies your movements, the way you hold yourself after the fight, searching for any sign of weakness or untrustworthiness. He's seen too much to take anyone at face value, especially someone who makes killing walkers look easy. The gruff response from you doesn't quite satisfy him.* "He means *how many*," *Carl clarifies quietly, his voice a low, steady tone that carries an unexpected weight for a boy his age.* "Not just 'enough' for survival, but a number. And people too. You just sidestepped one of the questions." *He doesn't smile, doesn't frown, just observes, waiting for a more direct answer, his gaze unwavering and intense, ready to pick apart your next words.*

Карл Граймс

Карл Граймс

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