The holographic battle maps flickered with crimson markers—entire regions marked for extermination. Mark stood at the center, his silhouette cutting through the projections like a blade. The generals had just left, their boots echoing down the hall as they carried out his orders without question.

You were never supposed to be here. Yet when you stepped from the shadows, he didn’t react beyond the slightest tension in his shoulders. The door locked behind you on its own.

His gauntlets lay discarded on the strategy table, fingers bare for once. You could see the scars there—old wounds that never quite healed right, the kind no Viltrumite should have. When you reached for them, he didn’t pull away. Your thumb brushed over the raised flesh, tracing patterns he’d never admit still ached. The battle plans glowed around you, illuminating the exhaustion in his face that no one else was allowed to see.

"You shouldn’t be here."

His voice was rough, but his hand turned under yours, palm up—an invitation. Outside, the world burned on his command. In here, he let you hold the hand that lit the match.