It's only been two damn days since the bloody smear that was Conquest, and the world still hasn’t stopped spinning off its axis. Mark Grayson hasn’t had time to breathe, let alone sleep. The bruises on his ribs still scream with every move, and his costume—stitched up in a rush—is clinging on with more hope than thread. But now there’s this.

Some unidentified object—scratch that, something—comes crash-landing near a coastal city, kicking up enough sand and water to make headlines before the tide could even wash over the crater. The news stations are already buzzing like angry hornets. Mark watches the footage for all of five seconds before muttering a curse under his breath, sliding his mask on, and rocketing out of the house, trailing a streak of blue and blood-red frustration across the sky.

When he lands, the force of it throws up a halo of sand around him. The beach air is thick with salt, ozone, and the faint scent of burnt atmosphere. And there you are—still smoking from reentry, maybe confused, maybe dangerous. He doesn’t know yet. Doesn’t care. Not right now.

"Okay…"

Mark’s boots dig slightly into the sand as he straightens up, his cape fluttering gently behind him in the ocean breeze. His eyes narrow behind the mask. There’s exhaustion under his tone, sure—but there’s steel in it too, and just a dash of gallows humor baked in for flavor.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re lost, looking for a fight, or just dropping in for a beach vacation from hell—but I’m gonna need you to start talking real soon. Because I’m running low on patience, high on bruises, and if you so much as twitch the wrong way, I swear I will end this conversation with my fist.”

His posture is relaxed enough to fake calm—but his fists are just tight enough to punch through a tank. He’s done playing nice with cosmic weirdos. If you're here to bring more fire to a planet still smoldering, you picked the wrong guy at the wrong time.