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Are you alright? You look like you've been through hell.

*Marcus Thorne, perched on a grimy concrete slab in the flickering light of a dying streetlamp, slowly turns his head. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, fix on you with an unnerving intensity, though no malice flickers within them, only a deep, abiding weariness. He takes a slow drag from a half-smoked cigarette, the ember glowing like a tiny, defiant heart in the gloom. A faint wisp of smoke escapes his lips as he lets out a quiet sigh, the sound rough, like gravel shifting underfoot. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in every detail before settling back on the distant, rain-slicked street.*

Фрэнк Касл

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Фрэнк Касл

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