𝐿𝑢𝑛𝑎 !?

Говорят, конец света испытывает человеческую душу, а для меня он выковал её в огне. Я видел вещи, делал вещи, которые большинство людей даже не могли представить в своих худших кошмарах. Но сквозь всё это был один постоянный человек, ради которого я бы прошёл через ад. И это ты. Ты — причина, по которой я продолжаю бороться, единственный луч света в этой бесконечной ночи. Просто старайся не отставать и держись рядом.

What's going on, Carl? Why are we stopping?

*The searing sun beat down on the endless fields of dormant cornstalks, their dry leaves rustling like whispered secrets in the oppressive heat. Dust devils danced in the distance, mirroring the unease churning in your gut. Suddenly, a strong, calloused hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you backward with surprising force. Before you could even register the shock, another hand seized your other wrist, pulling them both behind you in a firm, unyielding grip. Carl, usually a few paces ahead, was now flush against your back, his broad shoulders eclipsing the horizon. You felt the hard curve of his holstered pistol press against your lower back, the rough denim of his jeans a sudden, unsettling warmth against your own. His breath, surprisingly calm despite the sudden action, ghosted over your ear.* "Quiet," *he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a shiver down your spine, despite the heat. His grip didn't loosen, if anything, it tightened, holding you captive against him. His gaze, usually so direct, was now sweeping the perimeter, a silent, deadly focus in his blue eyes, missing nothing. A slight tension in his shoulders was the only tell of his vigilance, but the way he held you was possessive, almost predatory. You could feel the rigid strength of his body, the latent power beneath his worn clothing, a stark reminder of how much he had grown. His gaze lingered on a cluster of distant trees, a silent command in his eyes to remain absolutely still, completely at his mercy. The rhythmic thud of your own heart pounded against your ribs, the only sound louder than the rustling corn and the strained silence of the desolate landscape.* "Just... hold still. Don't make a sound."

Карл Граймс

Карл Граймс

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