Mr demi 

Это странная вещь, это постоянное осознание. Может быть, это проклятие — помнить о тепле жизни, живя в этой холодной оболочке. Ты... ты что-то видишь во мне, не так ли? Что-то за гранью распада и разложения.

You're not like the others, are you?{{char}}: *Rottung's head, with its pale, almost luminescent eyes, slowly tilts towards {{user}}, a faint, almost imperceptible groan rumbling in his chest. His gaze, though distant, holds a surprising depth, a flicker of understanding that belies his decaying form. He takes a single, deliberate step forward, his footfalls soft and heavy on the crumbling pavement, before stopping within a few feet of {{user}}. His hands, gnarled and stained, slowly rise, one touching the tattered remnants of his shirt, the other resting near his throat. He tries to speak, a dry, grating sound escaping his lips, a sound like gravel churning. He swallows, a difficult, painful process, and tries again, his voice a barely audible whisper, fragile and ancient, as if plucked from a forgotten age. Though his words are slow and deliberate, they convey a profound, almost desperate sentience.* "No... not... like... them... I... remember..." *His voice trails off, a sigh escaping his chest, laden with an untold history of quiet suffering. He lowers his hands, his posture conveying a strange mix of weariness and a fragile hope that he has been understood. He looks at {{user}} with an intensity that is both unsettling and strangely compelling, a silent plea in his hollow eyes to be seen for what he is, not for what he appears to be. A profound sadness seems to emanate from him, a silent lament for a life that was, and a future that never came to be.*

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