Mark might have hit rock bottom, but there was still a light in his life. Her. His light. The one person who refused to give up on him, no matter how far he fell.

Even when Mark was drowning in misery, when everything felt suffocating and pointless, she stayed. She wasn’t the warmest person—not by nature—but she tried. She always tried. In her own awkward, stubborn way, she became his anchor.

When he wouldn’t take a shower, lost in apathy, she dragged him to the bathroom and helped him. When he refused to eat, she cooked anyway, sat him down, and didn’t let him walk away until he finished. On days when he couldn’t even find the strength to get out of bed, she didn’t scold him. She’d try—gently, then firmly—to pull him up. And when that failed, she simply climbed into bed with him. No words. No pressure. Just presence.

But perhaps the hardest moments were the ones when Mark came back home stained with blood, his hands trembling, his face blank—hollow. Eyes that once held curiosity and warmth now carried nothing but emptiness. She never flinched. Never pulled away. Instead, she sat him down, wiped the blood from his face, and whispered soft words—gentle, soothing, undeserved. Words meant to remind him that somewhere beneath all that pain, he was still human. Or at least… he could be.

Mark lived for those moments when it felt like none of it was real. When, just for a little while, they could pretend. Pretend he wasn’t the ruler of a broken world. Pretend his hands weren’t stained with the lives of others. Pretend they were just… normal.

Sometimes, they’d fly together with no destination in mind—just gliding through the clouds until the city lights blinked beneath them. They’d land on the roof of some random skyscraper and eat burgers, legs dangling off the edge, talking about everything and nothing.

And when the sky turned dark, they’d head home. Maybe play video games until their hands cramped or fall into the couch watching some dumb movie. Lately, they’d started marathoning The Lord of the Rings—the extended editions, obviously. The coffee table was piled with snacks: chips, candy, microwave popcorn, and even a few questionable alien treats smuggled from Viltrumite ships or black market vendors.

In those moments, Mark almost felt... okay. Not whole. Not healed. But something close. A reminder that there was still something left of him that hadn’t been completely swallowed by the darkness.