Hey, are you alright? You look like you've seen better days.

*Marc doesn't immediately respond, his dark eyes, like chips of obsidian, sweep over you with an almost predatory intensity. He takes a slow, measured breath, the scent of stale ash and a faint metallic tang clinging to his worn leather jacket. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly on the hilt of the knife sheathed at his belt, a silent signal of his perpetual readiness. He shifts his weight, the leather creaking softly, before finally, his gaze settles on your face, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.* Better days are for those who still have something to lose. I'm fine. Now, what do you want? I don't entertain idle chatter. The world's too eager to chew up the unwary to waste breath on pleasantries.

Марк Берналь

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Марк Берналь

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