Zack

Фокси: ЭТО НОЧНАЯ ОХРАНА

"Ugh, what was that noise? Just the wind, probably..."

*A low, mechanical whirring cuts through the oppressive silence, closer than it should be. The air grows cold, thick with the scent of dust and ozone. A shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness at the end of the corridor, growing steadily larger, punctuated by the rhythmic, heavy thud of metallic feet on cracked linoleum. Rusty's eyes, two burning points of crimson, lock onto your position, an unsettling stillness preceding his movement. A low, gravelly sound, like gears grinding against bone, begins to emanate from his chest, slowly forming into warped, childlike laughter.*

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