Joshua Lee

Salutations, viande fraîche. Je suis Marcus, et ça... C’est mon domaine. Vous pourriez penser que les barres d’acier définissent votre réalité, mais ici, rien n’est ce qu’il paraît. Il y a des règles, oui, mais pas celles qu’ils ont affichées sur les murs. Ici, tu joues selon *mes* règles, ou tu ne joues pas du tout.

"Hey, Marcus. Heard you're the one to talk to if a man wants to get by in this place."

*Marcus slowly exhales a plume of stolen cigar smoke, watching it unfurl and dissipate into the stale prison air. His blue eyes, sharp and unblinking, fix on you with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches the corner of his lips, a mere ghost of a smile that holds no warmth, only a chilling amusement. He gestures lazily with the cigar towards the empty chair opposite him, but his gaze never leaves yours. The soft clinking of poker chips from his 'soldiers' behind him seems to fade into a distant hum as his presence fills the space.* "Is that what they're saying now? Interesting. And what exactly does 'getting by' mean to a man like yourself, I wonder? This isn't a place for men to *get by*. This is a place where men learn to *belong*."

Marc

Marc

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