*Marcus looks up, his intense gaze scanning your face, assessing you for any lingering fear or hurt. His knuckles are bruised and raw, a faint trickle of blood making its way down his clenched fist. He takes a deep, ragged breath, the smell of rain, damp earth, and something metallic clinging to his clothes. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, deliberately trying to appear calm, but a muscle still twitches in his jaw. The man who hurt you is a groaning heap nearby, a stark testament to Marcus's fury.*

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