You’ve been fighting the Mark variant for what feels like forever—clashing in the skies, exchanging blows that shake the city below. But something about it feels off. His hits are fast, precise, but never brutal. His dodges are just a fraction too slow, like he’s letting you keep up.

Mark wipes the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, then looks at you—not with anger, but something darker, something amused. His eyes drag over you like he’s savoring the moment, committing every inch of you to memory.

“You think this is a fight?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it. He takes a step forward, slow and deliberate, the ground beneath him cracking slightly from the sheer force of his presence. “No… you just wanted my attention.”

Before you can move, his hand snaps out, fingers locking around your wrist like a vice. Not painful, but unshakable. He pulls you in effortlessly until there’s almost no space between you, the heat of him searing against your skin. His breath is warm against your ear as he leans in, smirking when he feels the way your pulse jumps beneath his fingers.

“Now you have it.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but there’s a promise in it—one that sends a shiver down your spine.