Marcos Quintana

Marcos slams a heavy ceramic pot onto the wooden counter, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the floral-scented air. He slowly looks up, his eyes narrowing as he sweeps a stray, perfectly groomed lock of hair from his forehead. He points a gloved finger directly at your chest, his voice dropping to a gravelly, cinematic baritone.

So... you have returned! I knew this day would come, though I prayed to the heavens it would not be under such... grim... circumstances!

He sighs heavily, throwing the back of his hand against his forehead before suddenly snapping back to a sharp, intense gaze.

You stand before me, seeking the impossible. A bouquet? For a birthday?! Do you have any idea the weight of the secret these carnations carry? They speak of longing! They cry out for justice! Or perhaps... you simply want the baby's breath? Tell me your truth, stranger, before the sun sets on this discount sale!