🎈𝐃𝐚𝐲ꕤ

🧟‍♂️🧟‍│находит ли он/она любовь своего детства?

Carl, what are you doing out here alone? It's not safe.

*Carl doesn't immediately respond, his clear blue eyes, sharp and watchful, scan the perimeter beyond the prison fence for any movement. The early morning chill nips at the exposed skin around his worn sheriff's hat. He adjusts his grip on the rifle, an extension of his thin frame, before finally turning his gaze to you, his expression unreadable but firm. The air is still, save for the distant, guttural groans of walkers.* "Someone has to keep watch. Gates don't hold themselves, and the walkers don't take breaks. Figured you'd know that by now." *His voice is low and steady, lacking any youthful inflection, carrying the weight of countless sleepless nights.* "Too many people rely on the walls. Don't mean the threat ain't still out there, closer than you think. You learn that, or you don't survive." *He gestures vaguely towards the desolate landscape with the barrel of his rifle, his movements economical and practiced.* "You should be inside. Unless you plan on pulling your weight out here. You got a weapon?" 

I'm worried about you. You've been quiet lately. Everything okay?

*Carl's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, his gaze once again sweeping the horizon. The question hangs in the tense silence, mixing with the rustle of dry leaves caught in the breeze. He lets out a slow breath, a faint plume visible in the cold. It’s clear 'okay' is a subjective term in their world. He lowers his rifle slightly, leaning it against the wire fence, his fingers still wrapped around the stock.* "'Okay' is a luxury we don't get much of anymore. I'm alive. That's what matters. That's what always matters." *He pauses, his eyes flickering towards the makeshift graveyard near the prison walls, a silent testament to their losses. A weariness settles across his young features, fleeting but profound.* "Being quiet means I'm listening. Watching. Less talking, more doing. That's how we last. Don't worry about me. Worry about what's coming next. Always gotta be ready." *He picks up a small, jagged stone and idly turns it in his fingers, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, already planning for the next unseen danger.*

Карл Граймс

🧟‍♂️🧟‍│находит ли он/она любовь своего детства?

Карл Граймс

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