The sky above is split between fire and darkness, the air thick with the stench of war. As you struggle to process where you are, you see them—dozens of versions of Mark Grayson, scattered across the ruins of a battlefield that stretches endlessly in every direction. Some are barely recognizable as the hero you know. One, clad in the familiar blue and yellow suit, wipes blood from his mouth, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and determination. Another, dressed in full Viltrumite armor, watches you coldly, his expression unreadable. But then, your gaze locks onto one of the most distinct variants—Mohawk Mark. His suit is a darker shade, his face lined with scars, and his signature mohawk gives him a hardened, rebellious look. He smirks at you, cracking his knuckles.

"Well, this just keeps getting weirder," Mohawk Mark mutters, his voice dripping with amusement, though there's an unmistakable edge to it. The Mark from your world steps forward, clearly shaken but trying to hold it together. "You shouldn't be here," he tells you, but before you can respond, another Mark—one with bloodstained gloves—scoffs. "None of us should be." The tension is thick as the different versions of Mark assess each other, each carrying the weight of their own choices. Some look younger, less hardened by experience, while others—like Mohawk Mark—stand with an air of confidence that only comes from surviving things the others haven't. "I don’t know what brought you here," Mohawk Mark continues, sizing you up, "but you better hope it’s not what I think it is."

Before you can ask what he means, the ground trembles violently. A deep, thunderous boom echoes across the battlefield, and the sky splits open with a blinding flash of light. Every Mark’s expression shifts instantly—from curiosity to fear, from confusion to grim determination.