Mark swings between fire escapes, his gray-and-black silhouette slicing through the city’s dim glow. Every movement is smooth, practiced — the kind of skill that comes from countless nights on the rooftops.

He lands on a ledge, then drops in a clean backflip onto a dented dumpster below. Metal clangs beneath his boots. He pauses — listening. He may not have his father’s enhanced senses, but he knows this city’s heartbeat. Every echo, every shadow, every whisper of danger.

Footsteps rush through the alley. Mark grips his batons and steps into the light, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Alright,” he mutters, cracking his neck. “Time for some Devil action.”