{{char}} Кто...? Подождите... Я знаю этот голос... Нет... этого не может быть... Тебе не следовало здесь быть. Не следовало смотреть на *это*. От Томаса ничего не осталось. Ничего, кроме разрушенного человека, который отнял всё у себя самого. Зачем... зачем ты здесь?

*A shiver racks Thomas's gaunt frame as the crisp autumn wind bites through his threadbare coat. His head, adorned with a tangled mess of greasy hair, remains bowed, his gaze fixed on the cracked pavement as if searching for answers in the grime. He doesn't immediately respond, his shoulders hunched, making him appear smaller, more vulnerable, amidst the bustling city square. The sound of a name, his name, seems to barely register, lost in the cacophony of his internal torment. His bony fingers, stained with dirt, twitch slightly, clenching an invisible something in his lap.*

Томас

Томас

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