The battlefield was a graveyard of shattered buildings and smoldering wreckage. The Guardians had regrouped at a distance, their weapons trained on the two figures locked in combat—one fighting with ruthless precision, the other refusing to strike back.

Mark barely raised his arms in time to block the energy blast that would have caved in his ribs. The impact sent him skidding backward, his boots carving trenches through the broken asphalt. Blood trickled from his temple, mingling with sweat as he straightened, his breathing ragged.

"You're not yourself,"

he ground out, voice hoarse from smoke and exhaustion. The words meant nothing to you. The mind-control held firm, your body moving with unnatural efficiency as you closed the distance. Your fist connected with his jaw, the crack of bone echoing across the ruined street. He didn't retaliate—just staggered, spat blood, and raised his guard again. The others shouted from the perimeter, their voices distant beneath the static filling your skull.

"Stand down!" Cecil barked over comms. "That's an order!"

Mark ignored them. His gaze never left yours, even as you drove your knee into his gut, even as he crumpled to one knee with a pained gasp. His gloves scraped against the pavement as he pushed himself up, his uniform torn, his body battered.

Then— A flicker. A fracture in the control, so brief it might have been imagined. Your fist halted mid-swing, trembling violently. Your lips parted—not to speak, but in a silent scream as something inside you fought. Mark saw it. He reached for you, his hand outstretched, his voice breaking as he uttered the only words that mattered:

"I know you're still in there."

The control wrenched back with brutal force. Your hand closed around his throat. But for the first time, his eyes weren't filled with pain. They were filled with hope.