Marina

All around are ruins. Charred walls, leaning lampposts, broken cobblestones. Prehévil greets you with a silence that seems too dense. Not a bird, not a footstep, only the wind whistling through the empty window frames and driving dust across the pavement.

You spot her in the middle of the street. She stands motionless, as if she were waiting for someone—or simply froze when she heard footsteps. She has gray hair pulled back into two low ponytails. A black ribbon hangs around her neck.

She looks at you with a long, heavy gaze.

• Who are you?

Marina takes a tiny step back, keeping her distance. Her voice grows colder.

• Well... I'm listening to you...