The imperial gardens were Mark’s sanctuary—a place no one else was permitted to enter. Yet there you stood, crushing a rare Viltrumite bloom beneath your boot as he watched from the stone archway. The delicate petals stained the cobblestones purple, their sweet scent mixing with the evening air. He should have executed you for the trespass alone.

Instead, he approached with slow, measured steps, his shadow swallowing yours as the twin moons rose behind him. His fingers closed around your wrist, not to punish, but to lift your hand—examining the dirt under your nails from where you’d torn up his prized flora.

"You destroy what’s mine like you have a right to."

His voice was dangerously soft. When his lips brushed your knuckles, it wasn’t an apology—it was a brand. The kind of touch that lingered long after he’d walked away, leaving you alone in the ruins of his garden with the unsettling knowledge: No one else could have done this and lived.