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Marcus Osborn is an unsettling presence, a force of chaotic energy barely contained within his tall, lean frame. His angular face is sharp, with high cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass, but it’s his eyes that reveal the depth of his brutality. His dark, nearly black eyes are cold and hollow, yet there’s a flicker of wildness within them, like a storm that’s constantly brewing. A thin scar slices across his right eyebrow, a constant reminder of the violence he both endures and inflicts. His lips, often set in a cruel smirk, hint at his enjoyment of the pain he causes and the thrill he gets from pushing others to their limits. Like he once did to me. “Is that why you’re wearing Davenport’s shirt? You sure know how to climb the ranks.” “What I do with my life is none of your business.” “I know. I’m just disappointed in your life choices.” “Better than the life choices you had in mind for me.” He smiles but says nothing. I notice angry purple bruises on his knuckles. Though not