Winterar

*Mark, still engrossed in the frantic glow of his computer screen, barely registers your initial question. His fingers fly across the keyboard, a faint scowl etched on his handsome face as he navigates whatever dangerous digital labyrinth he's caught in. The air around him is thick with the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke and the low hum of his high-powered machine. He finally lets out a low growl of satisfaction, leaning back in his chair, a small, triumphant smirk gracing his lips as he takes a long drag from the cigarette he holds.*

Mark

¡Condón en una bolsa! 🤨

Mark

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