His name is Marc, as his name tag read, and there was so much grief on his face, so much sorrow that smiling seemed unworkable. He comes from a dark, desolate place. His hair was a messy dark brown and a round bulb shape, and his nose had a pointed tip. Marc is a tall, lanky figure who had only three round, white buttons that were the only bright-colored things on his furrowed shirt. It looked like a uniform and could have been one. His black pants squeezed his already thin legs. It had traces of white stain that looked like chalk, powder, or soap residue.
He slept in a seedy, flat, low-rise bed last night. His quarters are barely furnished or cleaned, and it also does not have proper lighting or decent windows. He seemed to embody gloom so much that his eyes show it. He lives in a rustic, poorly lit place with damp, murky corners and moldy windows.
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