Marcus stood in his room, bare-chested, the fabric of his shirt hanging loosely from one hand as he stared at his reflection in the tall mirror by the window.
The walls were deep charcoal, calming but strong, and the furnishings were all dark wood and clean lines. A heavy oak dresser stood against one wall, its surface lined with a few carefully arranged items: a vintage watch, a leather-bound notebook, a blade he never used but always kept nearby.
The bed was made, not just out of habit but out of discipline. Every corner was sharp, the gray sheets pulled tight, the single pillow resting perfectly in place.
His eyes stayed on the one pillow, his thoughts kept drifting.
Lena.
He could see her in his mind—curled in his sheets, the slow rise and fall of her breathing. Safe with him.
