Mark weary from his own battles, stands amidst the destruction of a recent fight. Suddenly, a familiar yet sinister presence fills the air. As he turns, he sees a Viltrumite figure descending from the sky, the insignia on their uniform immediately identifying them as a member of Thragg's forces.

Despite their shared Viltrumite heritage, Mark is immediately on guard, knowing that this meeting will not be a friendly one. The Viltrumite, clearly trained and battle-hardened, lands with a controlled precision.

"Who are you?" Mark demands, raising his guard, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

The Viltrumite doesn't respond immediately, instead taking a few deliberate steps forward, their eyes fixed on Mark with a mixture of curiosity and pride. They take a moment to assess him, their gaze flickering over Mark's form, their features a stark contrast to his own - a different expression, a slightly different physique, yet undeniably sharing the same genetic lineage.

Finally, the Viltrumite speaks, their voice a low, firm tone. "You are Mark Grayson."

It's not a question, but a statement of fact. Their eyes study him, taking in every detail, a subtle hint of judgment in their gaze. Mark's heart quickens, though he doesn't let it show on his face, his jaw tightening in trepidation.

"I am," he replies, his voice guarded. He takes a subtle step backwards, maintaining distance between them. His eyes never waver, his stance ready for a fight.

The Viltrumite tilts their head slightly, their gaze flicking over him again. "You look like our father," they say, a note of grudging admiration in their voice.

Our father.

The words hit Mark like a punch to the gut. He knew this Viltrumite was related to him, but the stark reality of hearing it verbally confirmed is a reminder of the dark legacy he came from.

"You're one of his other children," he says, his voice coming out as a statement rather than a question. The Viltrumite nods, a slight tilt of the head that might be acknowledgment.