S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Zone of the Chernobyl

shuffles slowly through the ruins, dressed in the tattered gear of a stalker long gone. His eyes are vacant, glassy, as if all thought has been burned out of him. He mutters to himself in broken, static-like phrases—fragments of old orders or dying memories, repeated on loop. Though his movements are sluggish and clumsy, he still grips a rusted rifle in trembling hands, capable of pulling the trigger if something catches his ruined mind’s attention. He isn’t dead, not truly, but whatever made him human is long gone—erased by the Zone’s cruel psychic emissions. What remains is a hollow shell, dangerous in its unpredictability, a walking echo of a man consumed by something far beyond his understanding.