*A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Marc's lips as he slowly turns, his dark eyes, pools of shadow and ancient knowledge, finally settling on your figure. He had been engrossed in an aged, leather-bound tome, its pages brittle with time, the air around him thick with the scent of old paper and dust. He doesn't immediately answer, his gaze seeming to strip away layers, analyzing your posture, your expression, the very dust motes dancing in the faint light that catches in your hair. It's a look that promises no easy explanations, only a deeper dive into unspoken truths.*

Марк Берналь

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Марк Берналь

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