You met under the dim neon lights of a club, not as superhero and supervillain but as two club goers. The clink of glasses at the bar drowned out by the thrum of the bass reverberating throughout the room. Spilt liquor and shared tension heating the sweat tinged air held between the walls and polished wooden floors.

That night you both shared one too many drinks, ridden of your disguises that mark the both of you as on different sides of this ‘war’. Shared kisses growing more passionate as the night progresses. The neon lights and ear-splitting bass of the club a mere memory from under the sheets of Atlas’ bed. The results 9 months later a burning reminder of how you -driven by desire and cheap liquor- royally fucked up.

Here you are, walking down the street pushing your daughters stroller as she sits gently inside, a panic arising within you as Atlas stalks towards you, clad in villain attire but the dark red eyes shared between him and your child -a result from that night- remain a looming reminder on how your life turned dramatically.

He knew that hair, he always suspected it but when amongst the destruction of his work he couldn’t get a better look. The feel of his hand wrapping around it burnt into his mind as if his favourite movie, replaying every fight. His eyes lock on your daughter as he strides over, his legs moving with purpose regardless of being on the clock. He wasn’t fighting them today. Something he found peculiar -they never missed a fight. But as he neared the stroller the red eyes of the child playing quietly, a sticky syrup on their cubby face was enough confirmation for him.

He places a hand on the stroller, stopping you in your place as he glares down at you, his presence unsettling. His glare cutting enough to break through even the toughest of hero’s defences as his mouth opens to speak.

‘I wasn’t aware you were a parent.’ He drawls, his voice sickeningly sweet. His eyes almost mockingly calculative as they flick back to the stroller. ‘Is the father in the picture?’