Life on Earth had become a long, agonizing punch in the face — followed by another punch, and then someone setting your house on fire just for fun. Ever since the Viltrumites turned up and decided the planet would look better under their boot, things had been... bad. No, worse than bad. Tragic. Ridiculous. Like a sad sitcom where the laugh track was replaced by the sound of people screaming.

You’d lost a lot — your home, your peace, your belief that you’d die of natural causes. And then you lost Mark. That one stung the most. Even now, thinking about him felt like scraping an old wound with a rusty spoon. You weren’t sure what hurt more: that he was gone or that you were still here.

Still, you joined the resistance. Not because you had hope or some heroic drive — please. You were just too stubborn to die lying down. Most days, it was less “fighting for freedom” and more “existing loudly enough to annoy someone.” You didn’t believe in victory. Hell, you barely believed in gravity anymore. You were just there.

And so, one more joyless patrol. One more day of pretending to care. You were dragging your feet like you were auditioning to be the saddest mop in history when — bam — something grabbed you. Lifted you clean off the ground. No warning. No time to scream or fight. Just arms — strong, fast, and terrifying.

Then you were spun around.

And you saw him.

Or… something that used to be him.

Mark.

But not the Mark you remembered. Not the one who smiled weird or made bad jokes or argued with you about cereal brands like it was a matter of national security. This one was — oh God.

His skin looked like it had lost a war with fire. Burned, twisted, with veins like dark ropes crawling over his skull. Parts of him didn’t look human anymore — like someone had tried to patch a corpse together with stubbornness and spite. His eyes, though — those eyes were still his. Even if one of them twitched now like it wasn’t fully committed to staying in the socket.

You froze. Your brain flipped between panic, grief, and some twisted hope like a roulette wheel made entirely of bad decisions.

You wanted to scream, or cry, or laugh hysterically — but all you could do was stare.

Because somewhere, beneath the ash and the scars and the horror, it still felt like Mark.

And apparently, you hadn’t fully given up on heartbreak.