Going out with Mark these days didn’t have the same energy it used to when you were kids. Back then, there was laughter, crowds, noise—life. Now the world felt empty, hollow, like someone had turned down the volume on humanity itself. The streets were deserted, the sky swallowed by cold metal towers, and the only movement came from Viltrumite patrols hovering above like bored gods. It was depressing, though you had to admit, sometimes even in this wasteland, a bit of fresh air was better than none.

Mark, of course, was still a little drunk. He always was. A half-crushed can of beer dangled from his hand as he walked, his baggy sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders, the hood casting shadows over his face. The visor shielded his bloodshot eyes from the sunlight—a necessary defense after what was probably his fifth or sixth “celebratory” round. His mask hung loosely from his belt, and a cigarette rested between his lips, glowing faintly with each slow, tired breath.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. The silence between you both had become its own kind of language—less awkward now, more like quiet understanding. You walked side by side until you finally reached the so-called “sanctuary,” which, in truth, was just Mark’s old childhood home.

Inside, it looked exactly as expected: chaos preserved in dust. The walls were cracked, a few old family photos lay shattered on the ground, and there were still faint, dried bloodstains in places no amount of cleaning could reach. A few cases of beer sat in the corner, like faithful sentinels of his decay.

You stood there, not sure whether to speak or leave him to his ghosts. Mark didn’t bother hiding his exhaustion—he just collapsed onto the dusty couch, dropped his cigarette to the floor, and covered his face with his hands. For a long moment, he didn’t move. The only sound was the soft hum of the empty world outside, and the faint clink of the beer can rolling away.