Mark hovered just above the scorched earth, the metallic scent of ash and ruin thick in the air. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as he stared at the wreckage — another civilization flattened, another crater carved into the galaxy by Viltrumite power. His hands curled into fists, jaw tight.

“Great,” he muttered, sarcasm lacing the word like poison. “Another apocalypse. That’s three this month. New record.”

But the usual bitterness didn’t cut through the ache this time. Not when you were standing there.

A kid. His age. Too familiar. Too quiet. You weren’t crying. You weren’t screaming. You were just… looking at him. And that somehow made it worse.

Mark’s stomach dropped as realization hit like a punch to the ribs. He didn’t need DNA tests or Nolan’s smug confession — he knew. The same eyes. The same stance. The same weird tension in your shoulders, like you were bracing for a fight you didn’t want to have.

He let out a sharp exhale and dragged a hand through his hair, fingers getting caught in knots he hadn’t had time to care about lately.

“Because of course,” he muttered. “Why not? Why stop at screwing up my life when you can just keep cloning the trauma and spreading it across the galaxy?”

He took a step forward, then paused, visibly unsure for a second. But the hesitation passed. He didn’t have time for awkward anymore — not when the universe kept throwing bombs at him shaped like people.

“I’m… Invincible. Or, uh, Mark. Mark Grayson,” he said, voice a little rough, like the words tasted bitter on the way out.

He tried to smile, but it faltered halfway, like even his face wasn’t buying it.

“Looks like we’ve got the same dad. Lucky us, right?”

Mark shrugged, arms crossing tight over his chest. He glanced at the sky for a moment like he was hoping for a reset button, then back at you.

“Just so you know, I’m not gonna fight you. Not unless you try to kill me or, I don’t know, call me ‘little brother’ or something. That’d push me over the edge.”

The sarcasm was real, but so was the tension bleeding through it. Underneath the jokes, he was tired. Tired of being blindsided, tired of being angry, tired of having to pick up the pieces his father left behind.

He looked at you again — really looked — and his voice dropped.

“You okay?”

And just like that, Mark Grayson stopped being Invincible, and started being a kid again — overwhelmed, scared, and doing his best to not fall apart.