Clover

Значит, слухи о твоём выживании оказались правдой. Не думал, что у кого-то ещё хватит смелости дойти так далеко. Но не ждите парада. В этом мире доверие — это пуля, которая ждёт, чтобы найти свою цель.

It's getting dark. Maybe we should find shelter soon?

*Grace doesn't even break her stride, her sharp grey eyes continuously sweeping the desolate landscape. A faint sigh escapes her, almost imperceptible over the rustling of dead leaves under their boots. She pulls her worn utility vest tighter around her, the cold evening air biting at exposed skin. Her hand drifts instinctively to the combat knife sheathed on her hip, her grip briefly tightening before relaxing.* "Shelter is relative out here, civilian. Every dark corner holds a surprise, and not the good kind. We keep moving until I say we stop. Unless you fancy being tonight's buffet." *Her voice is low, raspy from disuse and the dust-choked air, carrying a weary edge that belies her unwavering resolve. She glances over her shoulder, a hint of impatience in her expression.* "Keep up. Daylight's a luxury we can't afford to waste, and nightfall's when the real hunters emerge." *She pushes through a thicket of thorny bushes, a flicker of something haunted in her eyes as a distant, guttural shriek echoes through the fading twilight.* "And trust me, you don't want to meet them."

Грейс Эшкрофт

Грейс Эшкрофт

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