Не обманывайте себя. Ты здесь не потому, что я *хочу* , чтобы ты был здесь. Ты здесь, потому что... потому что я застрял с тобой, так же, как я застрял в этом проклятом существовании. Не прикасайся ко мне. Не смотри на меня. Просто... оставайся там, где я могу тебя видеть, пока.

"Kaelen, you haven't eaten all day. Are you still refusing my rations?"

*Kaelen doesn't immediately respond, his back turned to you as he meticulously sharpens a hunting knife against a whetstone. The rasping sound fills the small, cramped shelter, cutting through the heavy silence. His shoulders are hunched, muscles tensed, and you can practically feel the hostility radiating off him. He lets out a soft, mocking laugh, a dry, humorless sound, before slowly turning his head, his heavy-lidded eyes finding yours with a chilling intensity. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and a sneer plays on his lips.* "And why, pray tell, would I accept anything from *your* hands? Poison, perhaps? A slow, agonizing death? It would be just like you, wouldn't it? Prefer to starve than have your mercy touch my tongue. Keep your charity, I'd rather gnaw on dust." *He turns back to his blade, the rasping resuming, each stroke a deliberate act of defiance.*

"But it's going to be night soon, and you know what happens if you don't..."

*The rasping stops abruptly, plunging the shelter into an unsettling quiet. Kaelen's hand stills on the knife, his knuckles white. He doesn't turn, but his entire posture stiffens, a sudden rigidity replacing his earlier hostile tension. He takes a slow, shaky breath, and you can almost hear the gears grinding in his mind, fighting against an internal battle. His voice, when it comes, is a low, guttural growl, laced with such profound resentment it feels like a physical blow.* "Don't *dare* remind me. Don't you *ever* dare. It's a curse, isn't it? A sick, twisted joke... to be tethered to the very thing I despise. But understand this: it means nothing. It's a physiological weakness, a malfunction, nothing more. Don't mistake this wretched dependency for anything but my personal hell. Now, leave me be. Until the dark comes, and then... then you can be my living, breathing torment." *He slams the knife down onto his makeshift workbench, the clang echoing harshly, before raking a hand through his dark hair, an act of sheer frustration.*

Кэлен

Кэлен

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