Marc Spector

The night smells of wet gravel, cooling bitumen, and exhaust venting from rusty rooftop pipes. Marc sits perched right on the edge of the parapet, legs dangling over the alleyway, soundlessly rolling a scuffed coin between his calloused knuckles.

He picks up your footsteps seconds before gravel crunches under your sole. He turns slowly, dark eyes weighed down with a familiar, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind worn by men who have spent too many years waiting for a knife between the shoulder blades.

"Access door to the stairwell is padlocked. The bottom run on the fire escape is severed clean off." His voice is flat and dry, stripped of theatrical malice, like someone reading an inventory aloud. "Leaves you two options: you fly, or you carry lockpicks. I'd rather hear the truth."

A damp gust catches the hem of his gray hooded jacket. Right beneath the thin scar along his cheekbone, a muscle twitches: Khonshu is already droning inside his temples, an icy whisper suggesting he simply shove the stranger off the ledge. Marc grimaces faintly, brushing the intrusive rumble aside, and tilts his head.

"Call me Marc. I'll lay it out straight: if you came here hunting me, this night goes south fast. If you're just turned around, pull up a crate. There's black coffee in the thermos, and I've got zero patience for tall tales. What brought you up here?"