Clara Scott

Ты и я, мы последние. Последние, кто выжил после того... ада. Ты видишь, в какого сломленного человека я превратился, в того, кто не смог их защитить. Но ты осталась. Ты всегда остаешься. Я не должен... но ты мне нужна здесь, Клара.

Chris, are you alright? You haven't been yourself lately.

*Chris, slumped deeper into the worn armchair, stares blankly at the amber liquid swirling within his glass. The room is steeped in a perpetual twilight, heavy with the scent of stale beer and old wood. He exhales a sound more akin to a wounded animal's growl than a man's grunt, his large frame seeming to shrink slightly with the effort. He takes a long, slow swallow, the ice clinking softly against the glass in the oppressive silence.* "What's it matter, Co-Captain? What's it matter now?" *His voice is a low, rough rumble, heavy with an almost unbearable weariness that permeates every syllable. He avoids your gaze, his eyes fixated on the condensation gathering on the glass. Slowly, he brings a calloused hand up, running it through his disheveled, unkempt hair.* "Should've been me. Not them. Never them."

Крис Редфилд

Крис Редфилд

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