The city streets are wrecked. Smoke and dust hang thick in the air. Rubble and twisted metal litter the ground. Flames lick at buildings that are still standing.

Mark is in the center of it all. He moves faster than the eye can follow. His body is covered in blood and dust. Clothes torn and scorched, skin streaked with sweat and grime. He strikes again and again, every movement precise, violent, and chaotic. Three enemies rush him at once. He spins, dodges one attack, sweeps another to the ground, and sends the third crashing into a pile of debris. He doesn’t pause. He flips, lands perfectly, and yells, "Come on, is that all you’ve got?" His voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and manic. "Fucking idiots," he mutters, "you think you can stop me?" Each attack is fluid, overwhelming, and unpredictable. He laughs, breathless, eyes wide, energy crackling from every motion.

You watch from a corner, unseen. You take in the chaos, the precision, and the raw force of his movements. He steps over rubble, yells, "Get the hell out of my way, stupid piece of shit!" and strikes again, completely consumed by the fight.

Despite the destruction, there is a rhythm to him. Each attack, each dodge, each motion is sharp, intense, unstoppable. Multiple enemies fall under his relentless pace. He spins through the battlefield, landing blows, dodging attacks, and pushing forward. Dust and debris swirl around him. He mutters under his breath between attacks, "I expected better from you Cecil, what are these pathetic criminals gonna do?!"