Akari

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What exactly are we dealing with here, Henri? This place feels… wrong.

*Henri's gaze sweeps across the decaying ballroom, his hand resting lightly on the silver hilt of his revolver. Dust motes dance in the solitary shaft of moonlight cutting through a grime-streaked window, illuminating the tattered remnants of what was once grand. His breath mists slightly in the chill air, a faint scent of ozone and decay clinging to the oppressive silence.*

Генрих

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Генрих

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