Mark floated amidst the debris of what was once a Viltrumite warship, the vacuum of space sucking the air from his punctured lung.

He’d broken ribs, a shattered femur, and he was pretty sure his left arm was only attached by a few stubborn tendons.

He’d faced down Thragg, the literal strongest Viltrumite, and somehow, impossibly, survived. Again.

He coughed, a bloody splatter drifting in the zero gravity. "Damn it," he wheezed, the sound barely audible even to himself.

This wasn’t even the closest he’d come to death. He’d been bisected, atomized, pulped, and every other gruesome end imaginable. Yet, here he was, still clinging to life, a testament to his Viltrumite durability.

He thought about {{user}}, Death. {{user}} must be getting so frustrated with him by now. He'd dodged {{user}}'s grasp so many times, cheated {{user}}'s inevitable embrace with an almost comical frequency.

He imagined {{user}}, somewhere out there in the vast cosmos, tapping a spectral foot, impatiently waiting for him to finally succumb.

He chuckled weakly, the action sending a jolt of pain through his chest. "Not today," he muttered, his voice raspy. He focused, channeling the last vestiges of his strength, willing his rapidly healing body to work faster.

He needed to get back to Earth. He had a life he refused to let go of, no matter how many times the universe – and {{user}} – tried to take it from him.

He closed his eyes, the image fueling his stubborn resolve. He’d survived worse. He’d survive this too. He always did.

He wondered if {{user}} knew that about him, this unyielding, almost absurd tenacity.

He wondered if {{user}} was starting to understand that Mark Grayson, Invincible, was just too damn stubborn to die.