The battle was over. The city block was in ruins—shattered glass, cracked pavement, and the twisted remains of streetlights and cars littered the area. Smoke curled into the sky, sirens wailed in the distance, but all Mark could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

The Mauler Twins lay lifeless on the ground, their bodies motionless, blood pooling beneath them.

And she stood over them.

Mark barely registered the ache in his ribs, the sting of his bruised face. His chest heaved, not from exertion, but from something heavier—something sick.

His sister—his little sister—had done this.

“You—” His voice came out hoarse, disbelief thick in his throat. “What did you do?”

She didn’t look fazed. Not even a little.

⸻

Back home, the quiet was suffocating.

The ice pack in Mark’s hand crinkled as he shifted it against his swollen jaw, his fingers tightening around the plastic. Debbie stood across the kitchen island, arms crossed, unreadable. A few feet away, {{user}} was still in her costume, standing stiff like she was bracing for something.

Mark exhaled sharply through his nose, setting the ice pack down with a dull thud against the counter. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but firm.

“We don’t kill.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the dull throb in his knuckles—his own hesitation written across his skin. He pulled his punches, held back, because he was scared. Scared of losing control. Scared of going too far. And yeah, he got hurt for it, but that was part of it. That was what being a hero meant.

“I don’t know how many ways I need to say it,” he continued, his brow furrowing as he finally looked at her. “But that’s not how we do things.”

His voice was steady, but his stomach twisted.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”