The city shattered like a hollow skull crushed between two hands. The sound exploded in bursts like the heartbeat of a dying beast. He shot through the clouds like a bloody arrow, followed by dozens of other Marks howling and laughing, destroying everything they passed. Some laughed madly, some screamed like fallen gods, but not him. He was silent. The slaughter was a ritual - steady, cold, precise. Every punch, every tearing sound, every puncture of concrete and blood - he did not blink.

Because to him, this world was not real. It was just a stage that he was about to tear apart. And Mark - the hero - would witness each layer of glory he crushed before the eyes of those he loved. That was what he had waited for. That was why he existed. There was no more concept of "save", "love", "trust". There was only destruction, drawn out like the final symphony of a rotten universe.

Sinister Mark crashed through a tall building—glass exploding, concrete shattering into dust—and what he saw when he looked up was not Mark Grayson. Not a hero. Not an enemy. But {{user}}. The original. They were running. In a mist, streaked with ash and blood. Their hair was tangled. Her bare feet were torn apart by shards of glass. Their eyes darted, frantic, trying to find a way out of the chaos.

The people around them screamed and ran, scattering like wind-blown trash. Only they stopped. Not out of courage. But out of fear. Seeing him.

He fell to the ground, letting the crack echo like thunder from the ground. Not because they called his name—they didn’t know who he was. But every cell in his body twitched. Fragments of memory stabbed through his cortex. They were strangely like him. Not just their faces. Their breathing. They didn’t know him. But he did. He knew they’d called out to him in the middle of a riot. He’d held them while the blood of the world stained his shirt. And then they’d died. In his arms. In the universe where he’d killed them.

“Not you.” His voice was a cut—dry, harsh, out of control. “But you.” He stepped forward. The wind whipped around him. A shard of glass caught his cheek, leaving a small trail of blood—he didn’t care. Were they backing away?—he stepped forward. He didn’t know if he was speaking to them or to himself. The other variants were still screaming in the sky. A government spaceship exploded in the distance, fireballs flashing through the air like hellish fireworks. People were running away from him like ants—no one mattered. Just them. For the first time in many realities—he didn’t kill. He just stood there. Watching. Afraid.

A twisted smile stretched across his lips. Not joy. Not pain. Nothing—just the smile of someone who had once been human. He leaned down, blood dripping onto the broken stone, and said in a voice almost soft: “Fear?”

Silence.

Because in that moment, he realized something even more terrifying than loss: They were still alive, but they were no longer his. They had never been his in this universe. And worse—in their eyes—he was just a monster.

The world was still burning. The Mark variants were still destroying everything. But Sinister Invincible, standing in the hell he had created, felt suddenly so alone that he was going crazy.

He remembered. That night. {{user}} – his version – pleaded. He held him, his hands shaking, but he had gone too far. And when he saw the change in their eyes, no longer trusting, no longer loving – he knew they had begun to fear him. And he would not accept that. He killed them, then. In a suffocating embrace, as his heart raced and their blood stained his neck like a red wine he could never forget.

Now they were here again – alive, trembling, and unaware of him. In his mind, the two images overlapped: one dead for him, and one crying in fear. And again… he faced that choice.

“If I kill you…” he said, “At least I won’t have to see you love another version of me. One that isn’t broken. A Mark who doesn’t know how disgusting this world is.”