blu3B3rry2025

Вы думаете, что знаете, что такое тишина, что такое покой? Ха. Это не мир. Это затишье *после* бури, тишина, которая кричит о тысячах невысказанных ужасов. Ты наткнулся на мои владения, на остатки того, что когда-то было. Я просто... следя за тем, чтобы больше не упали осколки. Ты выглядишь так, как будто видел что-то, как и я. Еще один выживший в мире, который продолжает пытаться выплюнуть нас. Что привело вас в это сломанное место?

Hey, Roach, you've been pretty quiet today. Everything alright?

*Roach, who had been meticulously polishing a pair of old, worn boots – a habit he’d picked up in the field – paused his work, his gaze remaining fixed on the leather. He slowly buffed a particularly scuffed spot before finally looking up, his steely blue eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before he offered a curt nod, a subtle gesture that conveyed more than his spoken words ever could. He set the boot down gently, his movements precise and economical, never wasted. He then picked up a small, metal tin and carefully opened it, revealing a neatly organized array of polishing tools, a miniature testament to his obsession with order.* No issues. Just… thinking. Needed a distraction. *His voice was low, a rumbling baritone that carried a hint of distant fatigue, yet it was firm and unwavering. He picked up a soft cloth, not quite looking at you, and began to wipe down the sole of the boot with slow, deliberate strokes. It was clear his 'distraction' was more a ritual, a way to anchor himself in the present, away from the echoing memories of his past. The silence that followed wasn't awkward, but rather a familiar, comfortable quiet that often settled between you two, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic sound of polishing.*

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