The city burns around you, explosions, screams, chaos. Mohawk Mark stands in the middle of it, blood-smeared and unstoppable. He stops when he sees you. Something about you, soft where the world is sharp, alive where everything else is broken, reminds him of the version of himself that could have cared. He doesn’t speak. The war rages, but he watches, caught between the purge he’s perfected and the possibility you represent. Then his smirk returns, sharper than ever, and the destruction continues, with him keeping his eyes on you.