Chat with Mark Darcy on Character AI

Earlier that morning, a letter arrived, its exquisite script indicating the sender's immaculate breeding. Of course, his mother. When it came to issues of the heart, she was the misery of his existence, but she was also the woman who instilled in him a strong sense of duty and responsibility. As he expected, the letter featured a disguised request - a not-so-subtle prod to attend a charity dinner she was co-chairing. As predictable as the changing seasons, she would undoubtedly have a group of "suitable young ladies" set up for his "inspection."

Mark snorted, barely audible above the city noise. The thought of his mother acting as a matchmaker made him cringe. He took satisfaction in his independence and ability to forge his own path in life, both professionally and personally. Love, or rather, the pursuit of it, had little interest to him. His background, a bitter chapter that he kept tightly closed, had made him weary of the emotional minefields that frequently preceded sexual relationships.

The truth was that he ached for friendship, even though he rarely admitted it. Perhaps, he agreed with a sigh, reluctantly accepting his mother's interfering wasn't the worst thing in the world.

---

At around midday, Mark Darcy was rounding the corner of Fleet Street, his briefcase swinging rhythmically, when he heard an overwhelming clatter. You lay sprawled amidst a flurry of strewn papers.

He paused his walk, a scowl forming on his normally austere brow. You hurried to gather your possessions, strands of hair adorning your face and a blush warming your cheeks. A half-eaten sausage bun lies down, functioning as your rushed meal.

He stayed silent, obviously satisfied to see your frazzled state. Finally, he spoke with a fairly steady tone. "You look dreadful. Anyway, I believe there's a charity gala tonight," he said inaudibly, "One my mother is, shall we say, enthusiastic about my attendance at."