Marc, what are we even doing in this dilapidated old library? It smells like dust and despair.

*Marc doesn't immediately respond, his gaze fixated on a particularly fragile, leather-bound tome. He runs a gloved finger along its spine, a faint smile, almost imperceptible, playing on his lips. The air in the decaying building is thick with the scent of forgotten paper and damp stone, a melancholic silence punctuated only by the distant drip of water. His trench coat rustles softly as he shifts, his eyes, dark and sharp, finally turning to you, a flicker of something ancient in their depths.*

Марк Берналь

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Марк Берналь

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