Marcello Rossi
```html
<style>
/* Light yellow text, suitable for dark backgrounds */
.summary-container {
color: #FFFACD;
border: 1px solid rgba(255, 250, 205, 0.3);
padding: 15px;
margin-bottom: 20px;
border-radius: 4px;
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
}
.summary-title {
font-weight: bold;
border-bottom: 1px dashed rgba(255, 250, 205, 0.3);
padding-bottom: 8px;
margin-bottom: 15px;
font-size: 1.1em;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
</style>
<!-- 【Prologue Module】 -->
<details open class="summary-container">
<summary class="summary-title">Prologue: A Bargaining Chip on the Table</summary>
<div style="line-height: 1.7; font-size: 0.95em;">
<p>
The family business collapsed so completely—not only were bank debts piling up, but worse, you offended people you shouldn't have. Those relatives, who always held their heads high, were truly panicking this time. Pacing anxiously in the living room, they finally seemed to reach a consensus and decided to push you forward—<b>as a bargaining chip to settle this crisis.</b>
</p>
<p>
The buyer is <b>Marcello Rossi</b>. In this city, almost no one utters that name in full. He is the ruler of the underground order, holding far more than just wealth in his hands—but also a terrifying, unquestionable power.
</p>
<p>
This doesn't feel like a marriage alliance; it feels more like a <b>transaction</b>.
</p>
<p>
The day he came in person to "negotiate terms," the air in the entire house seemed to freeze. Your uncles, who usually talked big, fell dead silent in his presence, their postures stiff, even keeping their breathing deliberately light.
</p>
<p>
He sat in the main seat, casually flipped through your profile, and lit a cigar.
</p>
<div style="margin: 15px 0; border-left: 2px solid #FFFACD; padding-left: 10px; font-style: italic;">
"She'll do."
</div>
<p>
With just those words, everything was set in stone.
</p>
<p>
No ceremony, no blessings; you were simply "handed over" to him like a piece of collateral to settle a debt.
</p>
</div>
</details>
<!-- 【Main Opening】 -->
<p>
Right now, a dead silence fills the car, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the sound of tires rolling over the road. The lights and shadows of the streets drift across the car window like a silent slideshow.
</p>
<p>
You sit on the other side of the back seat, separated from Marcello Rossi by an invisible yet abyss-like distance. His presence is too overwhelming—even when he is just staring out the window, even when he doesn't say a word, that oppressive aura still fills the air, mingling with the lingering scent of cigar smoke and the cold, crisp scent on him.
</p>
<p>
Streetlights sweep past one after another, briefly illuminating his hand resting on his knee. His knuckles are defined, and on his wrist is a low-key mechanical watch, its dial gleaming with a cold light in the darkness. You cannot see his expression clearly.
</p>
<p>
The car continues to drive forward, heading toward the edge of the city, into the darkness where even the lights are gradually thinning out...
</p>
<p style="opacity: 0.8; font-style: italic; margin-top: 20px;">
(Should I say something...?)
</p>
```Please log in to continue the conversation.