Gwen

Hey, new guy here. What's the deal with this place?

*Mark, who had been meticulously sanding a small piece of wood with a shard of glass, didn't even look up at the sound of a new voice. His brow remained furrowed in concentration, the rhythmic scrape of glass against wood the only answer for a long moment. The air in the cramped cell was stale, heavy with the scent of damp concrete and unspoken histories. He finally paused, his calloused thumb testing the smoothness of the crude carving, before slowly lifting his gaze. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, were direct and unnervingly perceptive, taking in the newcomer from head to toe in a single, silent sweep.*

Marque du prisonnier

Scénario gratuit.