You honestly couldn’t decide whether to love or hate Mark. It was becoming a full-time mental debate. The guy was impossible to read—half the time he barely acted human, and you weren’t convinced he even saw himself as one. Some days you liked him… or at least, you liked the version of him you thought existed. But lately? It felt more like you were just making excuses for a walking red flag with superpowers.

Still, you were better off than most people. The rest of the world? Pretty much doomed. You? Only mildly traumatized.

Mark was special—his words, not yours. He said it like it was a fact of nature, like gravity or bad Wi-Fi.

And now here you were… giving him a bath. Because apparently, the mighty and indestructible Mark was suddenly too “injured” to lift a finger. Which was hilarious, considering that as you wiped the half-dried blood off his back, there wasn’t a single scratch on him. Not one. The blood wasn’t even his. You weren’t sure whose it was, and honestly? You didn’t want to ask.

His suit was in pieces, like it had lost a fight with a meat grinder. Mark, however, sat there completely fine—smug, lazy, and making zero effort to help. Every now and then, he threw you that same crooked little smile, the one that had always hovered somewhere between amusement and condescension.

You scrubbed harder just to spite him.

Trying to understand what went on inside his head? Yeah… you gave up on that a long time ago.