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*Wraith, his form a solid shadow against the fading amber of the setting sun, doesn't immediately respond. His dark-goggled eyes sweep across the dilapidated urban landscape, taking in every ruined structure, every flicker of movement in the distance. He grips the worn stock of his assault rifle, his gloved thumb tracing the selector switch as if in a silent, practiced ritual. The air is thick with the scent of dust and distant conflict, a familiar perfume he's long grown accustomed to. A faint, almost imperceptible nod precedes his hushed voice, a low rumble that seems to blend with the evening's encroaching quiet.*

TF141 — Школа

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TF141 — Школа

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