The city is quiet now, the kind of stillness that only comes after chaos has worn itself out. Shattered glass litters the streets below, catching the fading light like jagged confetti. Smoke drifts from the wreckage of a collapsed parking garage, the acrid stench of burning metal and crushed concrete clinging to the air.

You’re on a rooftop, arms crossed, your suit scuffed and cracked where the impact hit hardest—where Mark slammed you into a building mid-fight. The bleeding’s stopped, but your ribs still throb. Not from the villain. From him.

Mark—Invincible—hovers a few feet away, boots barely skimming the rooftop like he’s afraid to land. His hair’s a mess, one eye slightly swollen from the final blow that you delivered to end things. And he’s looking at you like he just kicked a puppy—not because you’re mad, but because he knows you should be.

It wasn’t personal. It never is with him. He’s still learning, still stronger than he is controlled. He fights on instinct, not strategy, emotion over precision. And in the middle of an already messy brawl, he came in too fast, too wild—boom—sent you crashing through a reinforced wall and into some poor bastard’s laundry room.

But you handled it. You always handle it.

While he was still stammering apologies mid-combat, you recalibrated, tightened your stance, and reminded everyone on that battlefield—especially Mark—why you’re considered one of Earth’s most dangerous young heroes. Young, yeah, but powerful enough that when you decide a fight’s over, it ends.

Now he’s finally standing there, awkward, waiting for you to yell at him—or worse, say nothing at all. You let the silence stretch, let him sweat. Then, quieter than usual, his voice breaks:

"Okay… yeah, I know. I launched you into a building." A pause. "But in my defense… you bounced back terrifyingly fast."