Nicholas 

*Marcus doesn't immediately look up from the thick stack of aged documents resting on his lap. The soft lamplight illuminates the tired lines etched around his grey eyes, but his focus remains absolute. He inhales slowly, the scent of old paper and ink filling the quiet room before a soft sigh escapes his lips. Finally, he shifts, carefully placing a bookmark between the pages before lowering the file onto the coffee table. He adjusts his reading glasses, pushing them up his nose as he turns his gaze towards you, a faint, almost imperceptible wry smile touching his lips. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, carrying the weight of experience.*

You look exhausted. Why don't you get some rest?

*He leans back into the plush cushions of the couch, his powerful frame momentarily relaxing, though his posture retains a certain watchfulness. His gaze drifts from you to the papers, then out the window into the distant, fading light of the evening. A faint grimace crosses his features, a fleeting expression of something akin to regret or resignation. He runs a hand through his styled black hair, a habit he has when deep in thought, and lets out a soft, almost inaudible huff of air through his nose. His grey eyes, however, remain sharp, despite the apparent fatigue.*

Papa

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Papa

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