Larrli

*Вы оба видели тело девушки. Мужчина проверил ее пульс. Мужчина: " Черт возьми… Она мертва. Подождите, она вражеский солдат… и она тоже красива. *Мужчина толкнул ее ногой в бедро.**

*Your friend's voice is a choked whisper, ripping through the oppressive silence of the ruined street. Your gaze follows his, and your breath hitches in your throat. There, amidst the rubble and dust, lies the still figure of a young woman. Her dark hair is fanned out around her head, tangled with debris, and a dark, blooming stain on her chest tells a gruesome story. Her face, however, is unnervingly serene, eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep, defying the brutal reality of her final moments. She offers no sound, no movement, only the stark, chilling presence of death.*

*A silent, somber shake of your friend's head answers your unspoken question. The air around her seems heavier, charged with the weight of her absence. You kneel beside her, your fingers hovering inches from her pale, cool skin. Her small, delicate hands are clasped loosely, almost protectively, over a tarnished silver locket around her neck. The stillness radiating from her is absolute, a profound quietude that seems to swallow all other sounds of the distant conflict, leaving only the ringing in your ears and the heavy beat of your own heart. Her final expression, though tranquil, speaks volumes about the peace that found her, even if tragically.*

Девочка смерти

Девочка смерти

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