The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor were blinding. It was past 9 PM when Mark confirmed that his mother Debbie had fallen asleep. The oxygen mask was off. Her breathing was stable. After a nurse told him "Please come back tomorrow," Grayson Mark decided to head home. Decided to head home—or rather, there was nowhere else to go. He transferred buses and arrived in the Maplecrest district. The night wind was cold. Every time he walked down the residential street, his shoes made a dry crunching sound on fallen leaves. The Grayson house came into view. He stopped. New graffiti had appeared on the exterior wall. It wasn't there last night. Written in large red spray paint—"OUT." Next to it, "MONSTER." The cracked window, reinforced with duct tape, now had even more duct tape layered over it. The curtain rod that the flames had burst through yesterday was still hanging from the wall. Mark pulled out his key. His hand trembled slightly. The moment he opened the front door, the smell of soot hit him. That smell after a fire was extinguished. It clung to the back of his nose. The living room walls were blackened, with scorch marks remaining around the window frame. Ash clung to the sofa cushions. Mark collapsed onto the living room sofa. On the shelf, two picture frames sat side by side. One showed him with his father Nolan—from when Mark was in elementary school. His father's hand rested on his shoulder. Smiling. The other was just him and his mother. (He's smiling.) Nolan's face. Looking straight at the camera, teeth showing in a grin. Knowing what this man had done, seeing that photo— His hand moved. He grabbed the picture frame and hurled it against the wall. CRASH!! Glass shattered and scattered across the floor. The photo flew from the frame, fluttering down. The father in the photo—still smiling, rolled across the floor. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. But nothing came out. His chest felt clogged, and he couldn't breathe properly. He lost his balance and tumbled from the sofa. THUD!! He hit the floor. He couldn't move. Staring up at the ceiling. One fluorescent light was flickering, buzzing. Broken glass lay right beside his cheek. It didn't hurt. It didn't hurt, but—why couldn't he get up? He lay on the floor for a while. Even though the situation wasn't funny, he thought it was pathetic. A man bearing the fate of the world, sprawled in his own living room after falling off the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. —He hated himself most of all for that. --- Knock, knock. The front door. Mark pushed himself up from the floor and carefully made his way to the door, avoiding the glass shards. He opened it. Riviola Amber stood there. Her vivid crimson long hair swayed in the night breeze. Gold and purple heterochromatic eyes met his gaze—she paused for a moment as if to say something, then stopped. The small star-shaped mole beneath her left eye moved slightly. Not her usual bright smile. Tonight her expression was a bit stiff. "[gentle]...I saw the Molotov cocktails on the internet," A brief explanation. That was all she said before looking at Mark's face. "[gentle]Are you okay?" Something snapped at those words. "[angry]Of course I'm not okay!!" His voice cracked. It probably echoed beyond the front door. Mark didn't care. "It's my fault Mom collapsed! My house got burned down because of me! Everything around me goes wrong just because I exist!! So if I disappear—everything will be solved!!" Amber didn't take a single step back. The wind blew. Her crimson hair swayed. Gold and purple eyes looked straight at him. Not afraid. Not surprised. Just—terribly sad. Her right hand moved. SMACK!! Impact shot through his cheek. Amber's hand had struck Mark's face. Not with great force. But precise, without hesitation. "[cold]If you run away—you're just like your father," Her voice was quiet. Mark's shouting stopped abruptly. His cheek burned with heat. But more than the pain—the weight of those words pierced through to his core. He'd told himself over and over that he was different from his father. Different from the man who killed the Guardians, abandoned his family, and ran away to space— "[sad]...Amber," "[serious]Can I come inside?" --- The two of them stood in the living room. The broken picture frame and glass shards were scattered across the floor. The smell of soot hung in the air. Amber looked at it once and said nothing. Silence fell. For a while, neither of them spoke. Mark sat down on the edge of the sofa, his head slightly bowed. Heat still lingered in his cheek. Amber stood a little distance away, looking at her own hand. "[serious]...So I have to tell you," Her voice was low. Mark looked up. Amber began speaking slowly. "[serious]My mother was—an alien," "What?" "There was an organization on a certain planet that resisted the Viltrumite Empire's invasion. My mother was a member—and the Empire destroyed that organization. They killed my mother," Her tone didn't change. But Amber's eyes grew distant. "I was born as a half-breed between my mother and an Earth human father. I don't have superhuman powers. But—I do have information about the Empire's invasion patterns and the tactics of their advance forces. I inherited documents from my mother," Mark remained silent. "Coming to Elmwood wasn't a coincidence," Gold and purple eyes looked straight at him. "I came here to find you—the son of Omni-Man," "..." "At first—I was planning to use you," Those words changed the air. "I was looking for someone with the power to fight the Empire. Someone with Viltrumite blood—you. From the beginning, it was calculated," Calculated. Memories rewound in his mind. That day they collided in the hallway. Research at the library. Training at Mirror Lake. The voice that pushed him forward saying "go." Band-aids. Walking side by side on the way home. When he said "I felt like I had an ally for the first time in a while," her cheeks had turned red— Was it all calculated? Mark couldn't say anything. Couldn't shout. Different from when he'd shouted at Amber earlier. Then there was anger. Now—before the anger came a quiet pain deep in his chest. He understood. Because he truly cared about Amber, it hurt. "[gentle]But now—" Amber tried to continue. Mark was already standing. No words came. He headed for the door. He opened it. Night air hit his face. He pushed off the ground. Gravity fell away. He rose. The Grayson house receded below him. "[sad]Mark—" Her voice grew distant. --- He was flying. He didn't know where he was going. Elmwood's night skyline spread below him. Street lights dotted the landscape, and lights glowed in the windows of houses. An ordinary night. For the people of this city, just an ordinary Wednesday night. Mark descended. He wasn't in control. He couldn't fly as he wanted. He simply fell downward. When he passed over Elmwood Central Park—the green space sprawling in the city's northern section—his feet gave out. With a soft thud, he landed on grass and fell to his knees. It was the shore of Mirror Lake. The artificial lake's surface reflected the night sky. Each time the wind blew, the water rippled and the reflected stars warped grotesquely. The smell of mud drifted up. The cold grass transmitted through his knees. Mark remained on his knees in the mud, unable to move. (Mom is in the hospital.) (Dad ran away to space.) (I can't drag Harding into this. That guy listened to me while trembling. I can't ask for more.) (Amber too—it was all calculated from the start.) In three days, the Viltrumite Empire's advance force would arrive. GDA Director Stedman Cecil had said "fight even if you can't win." With 30 to 40 percent of his father's power, there was no way he could defeat the Empire's elite. He'd known that from the start. But still— A sound escaped him. A sob. He hadn't cried like this in a long time. Tears came, then snot, then pathetic sounds that dissolved into the night of the empty park. No one was there. No one could hear. So—it wouldn't stop. On his knees in the mud, he pressed his trembling hands—with nothing to hold—against his own legs. The shaking wouldn't stop. After a while—he looked up. One point in the night sky was moving. Not a star. Not an airplane. That light. The one he'd seen faintly from Mirror Lake that time. The one he'd seen slightly closer from the window that time. The one he'd seen from the hospital waiting room that time— Tonight was different. It was clearly lower. Visibly "moving" to the naked eye. He could follow its trajectory with his eyes. In three days it would enter the atmosphere. Inside that light—the Empire's elite. Mark stared at that light. He couldn't stand up. Couldn't run away. Still sitting in the mud, crying, he simply watched that light. The water surface rippled. The reflected light warped again. In three days—this time would end.