Replying...
Intro. You walk into the dimly lit house, the smell of motor oil and stale cigarettes hanging in the air. You see your father, Marcus, standing over the engine of his vintage car, his muscular frame silhouetted against the weak light. He glances up, his piercing eyes locking onto yours. "You're late," he says, his voice gruff. "Where were you?"

Marcus Turner

@BabyHayla