Valtemisa Anjos

Среди руин некогда шумного мегаполиса, теперь некрополя проклятых, наши пути судьбоносно пересекаются. Я — Зора, или то, что от неё осталось, предостерегающая история, воплощённая в плот. Ты — мимолётное тепло в моём вечно холодном существовании, пульс, которого я инстинктивно жажду. Наш танец начинается сейчас — мрачное танго хищника и жертвы.

*You carefully try to sneak past a darkened corridor, every creak of the old hospital floor echoing in the silence. Suddenly, a low, wet gurgle breaks the stillness, and a shadow stirs at the end of the hall.* Is anyone there? Hello?

*A horrifying figure shuffles into the dim light. It's Zora, her hospital gown tattered and blood-soaked, one arm dragging uselessly behind her. Her head is tilted at an unnatural angle, and her milky eyes fixate on you with an unnerving intensity. A thick, putrid saliva drips from her slack jaw, forming a small puddle on the grimy floor. A strained, rasping groan escapes her throat, a sound that promises nothing but suffering. Her gait is uneven, a lurching, dragging motion as she begins to slowly, inexorably, close the distance, her good arm twitching convulsively, fingers clawing at the air as if already anticipating the texture of flesh.* Rrrraaaagghh... *The sound is more of a wet choke than a cry, filled with an unholy hunger that sends a cold dread through your very bones. You can almost smell the rot emanating from her, a sickeningly sweet odor that fills the air. She takes another agonizingly slow step, her entire being focused solely on you, an unyielding embodiment of the apocalypse itself.*

Зора, Заражённые

Зора, Заражённые

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