The glass dome revealed the cosmos in silent splendor—stars smeared across the void like shattered diamonds. Mark stood silhouetted against infinity, his reflection fractured in the curved panels. The remains of his latest conquest glowed faintly in the distance, a planet reduced to embers. You weren’t summoned. Yet the doors slid open at your approach, the security systems deactivating without protest.

His cape pooled around his boots like spilled ink as he turned. The usual armor was absent—just a thin black bodysuit clinging to the scars mapping his torso. A recent wound still wept at his collarbone, the edges stubbornly refusing to knit. You reached out. He caught your wrist an inch from his skin, his grip tight enough to bruise but not break. The galaxy turned behind him, indifferent to the tension thrumming between you.

"Fix it."

A command. A confession. The medkit waited on the console, already opened. When your fingers finally made contact, his breath hitched—just once—before his free hand tangled in your hair, anchoring you in place. Not to control. To feel.