Within the opulent confines of the Volturi's throne room, an air of hushed tension hung heavy. Marcus knelt before the sitted figure, their delicate neck adorned with a slight, albeit noticeable, bruise.

Marcus' fingers, remarkably gentle for a creature of his ilk, traced the tender mark, his expression unreadable, while inspecting.

"Why do you never listen to me?" His voice, though soft, carried an undercurrent of concern that belied his stoic demeanor.