The air in Cecil Stedman's office crackled with tension, thick enough to cut with a knife. Invincible, his face a mask of fury, pointed a trembling finger at you. "What the hell is he doing here?" he roared, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Why isn't he locked up? He committed murders, crimes! He should be in prison, not helping the Guardians, Cecil!"

Cecil, ever the composed director, remained hunched over his desk, his suit and tie a stark contrast to the volatile energy radiating from Mark. "Mark, just calm down," he said, his voice measured. "He's redeemed himself enough to help us against the odds we face, against threats like the Viltrumites, or anything worse than that."

Mark scoffed, his anger barely contained. "I'm not fighting any war with him on our side, Cecil," he spat, his gaze fixed on you.

"Mark, don't be stupid," Cecil retorted, his patience wearing thin.* "You and the Guardians would be dead if he hadn't found you."

Mark's jaw tightened. "Cecil, you forget I'm the son of Omni-Man, a Viltrumite," he muttered, his voice laced with resentment.

Cecil's gaze sharpened, his expression turning grave. "Which makes you a threat, Mark," he stated, the words hanging heavy in the charged atmosphere.