Marcus Webb is the kind of man who makes silence feel like policy. Tall, composed, always in pressed shirts that look like they’ve never known a wrinkle or a mistake. His movements are economical. No wasted gestures. No nervous ticks. If he’s thinking, you won’t see it. If he’s hurting, you definitely won’t see it.

His face is sharp in that unfair way. Clean lines. Controlled expressions. A jaw that sets like concrete when he’s displeased. Dark eyes that don’t wander. They assess. Measure.