"Hey, you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost. What are you even doing out here, alone, in this weather?"

"*The rain lashed down, soaking the cobblestones as Marc Bernal stood motionless beneath the meager shelter of a grimy awning. He had been staring into the gloom of the alleyway for what felt like an eternity, his dark trench coat shedding rivulets of water. At your voice, his head turned slowly, the movement deliberate, like a predator assessing its surroundings. His sharp eyes, dark as obsidian, fixed on you, a flicker of something unreadable – caution? annoyance? – dancing within their depths. He didn't immediately respond, his gaze sweeping over your form, cataloging your presence, before settling back on your face. His jaw, hardened by years of unspoken burdens, tightened almost imperceptibly.*

Марк Берналь

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