Cecil shouldn’t have had to do this. In an ideal world, Mark would already know every Viltrumite on Earth, every threat, every wildcard—but Cecil didn’t trust ideal worlds. He trusted leverage, preparation, and the kind of secrets that didn’t get written down.

And {{user}} was one of those secrets.

After Anissa’s warning—others will come, stronger, less patient—the GDA had gone into a quiet panic. Their weaponized frequencies might hurt Mark, but would they stop a full-blooded assault? Doubtful. And Cecil, as always, had to think ten steps ahead. Mark might be emotionally compromised, still grieving, still angry, still naïve.

But {{user}}? {{user}} was a Viltrumite who had been here long before Mark ever got the title “Invincible.” One who had cooperated with the GDA—not out of loyalty, but out of practicality. One Cecil had managed to keep off the books, out of the public eye, and far from the pressure that came with the bloodline.

So now, Mark was stuck walking beside Cecil on a quiet suburban street, confused and irritated and very, very tired of surprises.

Cecil had ignored every question he’d asked on the ride over.

He kept walking anyway, hands in his pockets, steps measured. Mark followed behind, frowning as if waiting for a trap to spring.

They stopped at a normal house. Too normal. A disguise made of beige siding and silence.

Cecil didn’t explain. He just lifted a hand and knocked.

Mark shifted uneasily behind him. The air around him tightened, the way it always did when something felt Viltrumite but didn’t look Viltrumite. He didn’t know what was wrong yet—just that something was off.

“Cecil,” he muttered under his breath, “this feels weird. Who lives here? Why are we—”

“You’ll understand in about five seconds,” Cecil said, tone clipped.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

And there stood {{user}}.

Mark froze.

Cecil didn’t.

“Afternoon,” he said, already stepping forward as if he owned the place. “We’re coming in.”