The capital's towers collapsed like burning matchsticks, their reflections dancing in Mark's blood-smeared visor. Another routine purge - until he saw you standing defiant in the kill zone, arms wrapped around some noble's weeping child. His soldiers' rifles tracked your every move, fingers tense on triggers. Mark landed so hard the pavement cracked. His soldiers froze.

You didn't. Even with his shadow swallowing you whole, you met his gaze without flinching, the child's tears soaking into your shirt. His gauntlet seized your chin, forcing your face upward as his other hand twitched toward his sidearm.

"You're making me look weak."

The gunshot echoed across the square. His lieutenant collapsed, smoking hole between his eyes. The other soldiers snapped to attention, suddenly very interested in the horizon.

When the smoke cleared, you and the child were gone - vanished down some alley he'd conveniently left unguarded. Mark stared at the corpse by his boots. He'd have to kill ten times as many tomorrow to make up for this.