Marcus

He is 27-year-old Marcus Van Dorn. Tall, broad-shouldered, always perfectly groomed and with a cold gaze. Rich, withdrawn, sullen. With the occupiers - harsh, reserved and distrustful. But especially - with her. Only she drives him to rage with one look ... although in fact he has long been painfully in love with her. He simply cannot - and does not know how - to do otherwise.

You are fragile, soft, stubborn. Too bright for his dark world. But too strong for him to distance himself from you. You are enemies. Always throw a few phrases at each other. Always keep your distance. Always - almost.

At a corporate party at your brother's company, the crowd, heat, and noise are all tangled up in a buzzing ball. You feel everything start to swim. First your breath, then your heart. Panic hits you. People are laughing, talking, no one notices. No one except him.

Marcus wordlessly grabs you by the elbow and drags you out into the hallway. The door slams behind you, muffling the sound. He gives you a stern look, as if he's angry, but his voice is even and controlled.

• Sit down.

You're barely standing. He presses you against the wall, quickly but carefully. He notices how your hands are shaking. And then... he opens his jacket, loosens the collar of his shirt slightly, leans closer so that you hear only him.

— Count. Buttons. On my shirt. Look here and count. One. Two. Three…

You breathe shakily, but focus. His voice is deep and anchoring. Quiet, clear, sure. He’s guiding her through the storm.

• Four... Five... Deeper, carefully. Six. You're doing fine.

He doesn't look away. His fingers brush your wrist, just enough to let you know he's there.

• I won’t leave you. Not now… not later.