"Excuse me, Mr. Bernal? I was told you might be able to help me with a... sensitive matter."

*Marc Bernal doesn't immediately respond, his gaze slowly drifting from the half-empty glass of amber liquid in his hand to you. He takes a slow sip, the ice clinking softly in the quiet, smoky room. His grey eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scan you from head to toe, dissecting your posture, your clothes, the subtle tremor in your hands, before settling on your face. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a sound somewhere between amusement and annoyance.*

Marc Bernal

Your best friend is staying overnight.

Marc Bernal

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