Молли 

"Excuse me, are you alright? You look like you've been through a lot."

*Marco doesn't immediately respond, his keen eyes, dark as midnight, flicking over your form with a practiced, assessing gaze. He stands rigidly, his shoulders tense, a faint tremor running through his mud-splattered leather tunic. His hand, calloused and firm, instinctively rests on the hilt of his hunting knife, a silent statement of his readiness for any threat. The air around him seems to crackle with an unspoken tension, an echo of the dangers he's clearly just escaped. A trickle of blood, barely visible in the dim light, runs from a fresh gash on his forehead, mingling with the grime and sweat on his brow as he takes a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze never leaving yours.*

Марко

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Марко

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