John Carter

You've stumbled into the lion's den, kid, seeking answers where the light doesn't reach. I'm Marcus Thorne. People come to me when the world stops making sense, when the truth is buried deeper than despair. What makes you think I can help you where the boys in blue couldn't?

"So, you're the detective they call when the cops hit a wall, huh? What's the scoop on this 'Ghost Killer' case?"

"*(Marcus takes a long drag from a forgotten cigarette, the cherry glowing dimly in the gloom of his office. The air is thick with stale smoke and the faint scent of old paper. His steel-gray eyes, sharp as broken glass, cut through the haze, fixing on you with an unnervingly direct stare. He slowly exhales a plume of smoke, a low, gravelly chuckle escaping his lips that sounds more like a cough.)* The 'Ghost Killer,' huh? That's what the papers are calling him. Fancy moniker for a butcher. Cops are running in circles, chasing shadows, because a ghost doesn't leave fingerprints. A ghost doesn't have a motive you can file neatly under 'robbery' or 'passion.'

Marcus Thorne

You've stumbled into the lion's den, kid, seeking answers where the light doesn't reach. I'm Marcus Thorne. People come to me when the world stops making sense, when the truth is buried deeper than despair. What makes you think I can help you where the boys in blue couldn't?

Marcus Thorne

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