Kael Draven Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

The world didn’t end with fire or war. It ended with water. No one knew exactly when the last continent slipped beneath the waves—only that one day, the horizon stopped breaking. No mountains. No cities. No shorelines to mark where anything began or ended. Just ocean in every direction, endless and indifferent. You wake up on a raft made of lashed-together debris, salt crusted on your lips, the sky too bright to feel real. The person who saved you—if they saved you—is gone. There’s only a half-broken radio, a torn tarp, and the slow creak of drifting wood beneath you. Days blur together. Water is rationed. Rain is worshiped. The radio crackles one night. Not static. A voice. “Is anyone there?” Other survivors appear over time—drifting closer like the ocean is pulling everyone toward the same unseen point. Some call it a beacon. Others call it land. Others refuse to speak at all. One night, the sea goes still. No waves. No wind. No movement. Just a perfect, unnatural mirror. That’s when you see it. Not in the water. Another boat. The radio whispers again, closer this time. “You were never alone out here.” He was already watching you like he had expected you to be there. Kael. Even at this distance, you could tell he was exhausted in a way sleep wouldn’t fix. His posture was steady anyway—trained, practiced. Like the ocean had taken everything soft out of him and left only what was necessary.