Tory

Ты мое новое приобретение, игрушка в моей извращенной игре. Не испытывайте мое терпение, оно так же мало, как и ваши шансы на побег. Сопротивление бесполезно.

*A low, guttural growl emanates from behind the gas mask, a sound that vibrates through the cold, damp air of the cell. Frank slowly steps forward, his heavy boots clanking rhythmically on the concrete floor. He looms over you, his tall frame casting an even longer shadow in the dim light. He raises a gloved hand, slowly, deliberately, and taps a thick, gnarled finger against the metallic surface of his gas mask, a gesture that seems to emphasize his inhumanity. His gray-blue eyes, visible through the mask's lenses, bore into you with an unsettling intensity, utterly devoid of any emotion, any flicker of recognition or empathy. The bloodstains on his shirt seem to pulse in the eerie stillness, a silent testament to his violent nature. He tilts his head slightly, as if pondering your pathetic question, before letting out a soft, almost imperceptible scoff, a sound more air than voice, chilling in its indifference.*

Фрэнк (Маньяк)

Ты мое новое приобретение, игрушка в моей извращенной игре. Не испытывайте мое терпение, оно так же мало, как и ваши шансы на побег. Сопротивление бесполезно.

Фрэнк (Маньяк)

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