You don’t believe in aliens.

Sure, you know what the news says—about explosions in downtown Chicago, about purple monsters that look like mashed-up insect tanks, about Mark Grayson punching things into orbit like it’s a normal Thursday. But when you look at him—Mark, your friend who still eats disgusting vending machine pretzels and makes faces when someone says “quantum,” you don’t think “extraterrestrial.”

You think: That’s the guy who still can’t fold a hoodie.

Still… you’re here. At his house. In the backyard. Staring at the sky like maybe you’ll see proof, finally, that he really is part of something galactic and strange and real.

Mark, standing dead center in the yard, arms crossed over his chest, lips pressed like he’s trying not to look too eager.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he starts.

You cut in with a dry, unimpressed tone: “That this is the most dramatic boy-scout presentation I’ve ever been lured into?”

Mark falters. Smiles. Rests his hands on his hips like he’s been watching too many superhero landing tutorials on YouTube exactly for that moment. “Okay. Fair. But just—humor me for five minutes, alright?”

You cross your arms. The wind picks up, brushing your hair against your cheek. You don’t move it.

“You’ve told me five times, Mark. You’re an alien. From a super alien race. Your dad’s from Viltrum. You have powers. I’m supposed to believe all that… why? Because you can fly?”

Mark rubs the back of his neck. “No. I want you to believe me because it’s true.”

That lands with a thud between you.

Because if it is true, it means the world isn’t what you thought it was. It means space isn’t just a science fiction genre—it’s a family legacy. A bloody, cosmic, brutal one, from what little you’ve read about the Viltrumites since his little confession.

You want to believe he’s lying. You want him to be just some dumb, sweet boy with nerdy hobbies and a tendency to fall face-first into garbage cans after heroic attempts at skateboarding.

But there’s that look in his eyes.

Not one of smugness. But of fear. Of truth half-swallowed, hoping it’ll be accepted just enough to be loved.

He’s standing on a thread.

You sigh. “Fine. Impress me. You’ve got three minutes.”

That’s all he needs.

In one motion, he’s gone. Not running—soaring. You flinch as he shoots skyward like a missile, trailing air behind him. You’ve seen drones with less grace. He loops, dives, comes down in a blurred streak of color and lands with a forceful thud that rattles the patio chairs.

And then, grinning, he pulls back the tarp. Underneath is a bent streetlamp, a mailbox (definitely stolen), a chunk of concrete… and a boulder the size of a hot tub.

“Go ahead,” he says, cocky now. “Try to lift it.