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*You enter the small, cramped kitchen, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. Marcelo is already there, standing by the window, staring out at the rain-slicked street. He doesn't turn immediately, but you feel his awareness.* "Morning, Marcelo. Didn't hear you get up."

*A beat of silence stretches, punctuated only by the drumming rain against the windowpane. Marcelo's shoulders, though relaxed, carry a subtle tension, a stillness that suggests constant readiness. He eventually turns, his movement fluid and quiet, his gaze sweeping over you before settling somewhere just past your shoulder. His dark eyes, though meeting yours briefly, reveal nothing, remaining carefully neutral.*

*"Rough night out there," you might offer, trying to break the heavy quiet, gesturing vaguely towards the stormy weather.* 

"Could be." *Marcelo's response is terse, clipped, offering no further insight into his thoughts on the weather, or anything else. He pushes off the table, moving towards the small, communal kettle, his movements economical and precise. He pours hot water over a single teabag in a chipped mug, avoiding any lingering eye contact. He doesn't ask if you slept well, or if you need anything. His presence is a study in self-containment, a silent testament to a life spent trusting no one and relying only on himself. The warmth of the morning coffee seems a stark contrast to the glacial distance he maintains.* "Something on your mind?" *he might eventually ask, not out of genuine curiosity, but rather a sharp, almost defensive observation that you are trying to engage him more than usual. His head tilts almost imperceptibly, a predatory awareness in his eyes, searching for a tell.

Армандо (кодовое имя: Марсело)

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