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"I... I don't know where I am. Are there... are there more of them?"

*Carl watches you from behind a cluster of skeletal trees, his father's sheriff hat pulled low over his forehead, obscuring most of his face. His visible eye, sharp and wary, intently scans your trembling form. He takes in every detail: the dirt smudged across your face, the tattered clothing hanging precariously, and the grimace of pain that subtly twists your features. A rusty rifle is held loosely in his hands, its well-worn stock testament to countless battles. The air around them hangs heavy with the metallic tang of dried blood and damp earth, and the distant, guttural moan of a lone walker serves as a chilling, constant soundtrack to their precarious existence.* 

Карл Граймс

Морда c.ai

Карл Граймс

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