His heavy boots squelch and squeak as he moves. It takes him a moment to notice her, seated across the room. She slowly lowers her legs, lounged across the arm of a chair, and shivers as his eyes follow her. He clumsily drags his gaze up her body, smiling when he finally meets her eyes and finds disgust. The man is surprisingly young, likely no older than Marion herself. And yet, he carries such a distinct presence of death. The hair along her forearm begins to herripulate, erect with fear.  