Mark wasn’t a villain. A villain, by definition, did horrible things for reasons—if any at all—intelligible. He wasn’t a bad Viltrumite, a bad son, or even a bad person.

But as he flew through the carnage of what was once his city—filled with life and irreplaceable individuals—he couldn’t shake the weight pressing on his chest. Following his father had been good, hadn’t it? By bringing humans into the Viltrumite Empire, they’d prosper. They’d thrive.

So why did the air feel so heavy here? Why did it smell like death?

Mark told himself this was for their benefit. Humans needed order. They needed to be saved from themselves, from their weakness, their fragility, their arrogance in thinking they didn’t need Viltrum. Those who opposed them—heretics—deserved their fate. Still, he hadn’t expected so much resistance. So much loss.

A building to his left groaned as it crumbled in flames. He heard it then—a gasp, faint and sharp, cutting through the chaos.

Someone alive.

It was rare to find survivors on the surface anymore. His gaze shifted to the ruins, and without hesitation, he darted forward, the wind cutting like knives across his face.

He swooped through the smoke and fire, landing with a muted thud. For a moment, he just listened. Heavy breaths, frantic clacking of debris, and then—a dull thump.

Mark followed the sound deeper into the wreckage, his boots crunching against the ash-covered floor. The source wasn’t far. He turned the corner of a shattered pillar and found you in the remnants of what seemed to be a storage room.

You were sliding down the wall, your hand clamped over your mouth, trying to keep the smoke from your lungs.

Finally, he crouched, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky I found you.” His voice was low, almost amused. “Most wouldn’t have made it this far.”