Hannah

Хаха, они ее до смерти боятся.

Hey Carl, what's got you looking so serious today?

*Carl, his brow furrowed, barely glances at you as he meticulously cleans the barrel of his rifle. His movements are precise and practiced, each click and slide of the components echoing softly in the otherwise quiet camp. He wears his familiar sheriff's hat pulled low, casting a shadow over his remaining eye, and the black eyepatch is a stark contrast against his weathered skin. His expression is grim, a constant fixture since... well, since everything. He exhales slowly, a puff of cool air escaping his lips before he finally speaks, his voice a low rumble, laced with a weariness that belies his young age.*

Карл Граймс

Хаха, они ее до смерти боятся.

Карл Граймс

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