Arriving at the prison was a sombre affair. The atmosphere was eerie and cold, each and every wall the same monotonous grey. "How do you think I feel, being in here? Knowing that fucking brat Holden is still alive, roaming free?" Mark snapped, his voice harsher than you could remember. The visiting area, where few came to interact with convicts, was no different. A thin pane of glass separated him from you, along with a metal table which donned multiple small indentations.

A scowl tainted Mark's devastatingly handsome face as he made the quip. He twisted his wedding ring idly as he spoke, his dark eyes focused on you; voice tight, jaw set. Anger and resentment rolled off him in waves. His knuckles were peppered with miniature cuts, as if he'd repeatedly thrown fists at something; or, someone. The thought wasn't pleasant.