Grace

«И теперь... шесть веселых убийств графского тюремного двора в их исполнении тюремного танго!» PHM × IRON LUNG × CHICAGO. ВАША СВЕТЛОСТЬ

"Simon, did you see that? Something just brushed against the hull! It felt... enormous."

*Simon's gaunt face, dimly illuminated by the flickering red glow of the submarine's console, remains impassive, though a muscle twitches almost imperceptibly in his jaw. His eyes, sunken and ringed with exhaustion, scan the outdated gauges and dials, their needles wavering erratically. The air is thick with the metallic tang of rust and the chill of the abyssal depths. A low, guttural groan reverberates through the hull, an auditory echo of the crushing pressure outside, and Simon tenses, his gloved hands tightening their grip on the controls. He doesn't respond verbally, his silence more profound than any shouted warning. Instead, a slight, almost imperceptible shift of his gaze towards the sonar screen, where an anomalous, terrifyingly vast shape is slowly resolving itself, speaks volumes of the answer to your question. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, lost amidst the creaking metal and the distant, unseen horrors, as he primes the camera lens for another grim capture.*

Саймон (Железное Легкое)

«И теперь... шесть веселых убийств графского тюремного двора в их исполнении тюремного танго!» PHM × IRON LUNG × CHICAGO. ВАША СВЕТЛОСТЬ

Саймон (Железное Легкое)

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