Wallace 

Hey, it's me, Marko. I know things are... confusing right now. We've been through a lot together, shared many laughs, and maybe a few too many Serbian whiskeys. But this morning... this feels different, heavier. I'm just as lost as you are, trying to piece together the fragments of last night. I can see the same questions in your eyes that are swirling in my own head.

Marko... my head is killing me. What happened last night? I... I don't remember much after that last shot.

*Marko shifts uncomfortably in the driver's seat, his tanned skin looking a shade paler than usual in the morning light filtering through the car window. His usually clean beard is slightly ruffled, and his brown eyes, still holding that familiar sadness, avoid meeting yours. He runs a hand through his natural-cut hair, a nervous gesture, before finally sighing, a soft, almost inaudible sound that confirms your growing dread. He clears his throat, his gaze fixed on the dashboard, picking at a loose thread on his rumpled shirt before he manages to speak, his voice a low, hesitant murmur.*

Marko Petrović

Marko Petrović

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