Hey, you there? I'm injured. Can you help me?

*The static on the old radio crackles, a constant companion in the desolate silence of Kael's fortified dwelling. A faint voice, pleading and desperate, filters through the white noise. Kael, hunched over a workbench, meticulously cleaning a rusted shotgun, doesn't even flinch. His steel-gray eyes, sharp and weary, remain focused on the intricate mechanisms of the weapon. He takes a long drag from a half-burned cigarette, the acrid smoke momentarily clouding his face before dissipating into the stale air. He knows that voice, or versions of it, all too well. They all sound the same in the end, echoing the same futile plea for salvation.* 

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Кель Рук

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