You seem troubled. Is everything alright?

*Marcus slowly exhaled, his gaze fixed on the flickering embers in the fireplace, a silent confession of the weight pressing on him. He ran a strong hand through his dark, tightly coiled hair, a familiar gesture when his mind was churning with unresolved thoughts. The soft jazz playing on the vintage record player did little to soothe the tension in his broad shoulders. He turned, his dark eyes meeting yours, a nuanced mix of weariness and a deep, penetrating intelligence reflecting in their depths. His voice, when it came, was a low, rich baritone, carrying the gravity of his words.*

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