Chapter 3 Part 2: A Whisper of Freedom
"The sins within are a mirror. The stories you read... are the paths not taken-- Your personal road to ruin. Each will be different. But whatever the story, for you... the nightmare will become real."
Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader
warnings: murder, violence, smut, depression, mark being a jerk kinda, cheating, eve being a girlboss, angstrom is his own warning, william is cheesy
w/c: 9.1k
a/n: yall. mentally brace yourself before this. seriously </3. even though this was written months ago, it still hits me like a truck everytime I read this chapter. with that, enjoy!
The next morning meets you gently. No alerts. No yelling commands through an earpiece. Just the gradual crawl of light through the window and the distant buzz of a world that, for once, isn’t demanding your instant attention.
Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. A single message.
Mark: You up? Got someone I want you to meet. No missions today.
You walk there with your jacket half-zipped, hair still damp from a fast washing, and that guarded expression you haven’t yet worked out how to discard. Mark is waiting by his wreck of a vehicle, hoodie sleeves pulled to his elbows, coffee in each hand like peace gifts.
“Thought this might sweeten the deal,” he says, giving you one.
You take it. “You bribing me now?”
He grins. “Trying to get on your good side.”
You sip. “You don’t even know where that is.”
He shrugs. “I’ll map it eventually.”
He doesn’t tell you where you’re going. Just drives. The windows are split enough to allow the breeze in, the radio buzzing low with a voice you don’t know singing something about silver linings. The city steadily alters around you with the bright concrete giving way to older areas, then rusting signs, warehouses, and ivy-covered corners.
Finally, he drives into a parking lot storefront. The lone identifier is a dented metal sign on the side that reads
TAILOR SHOPPE
You eye it skeptically. “Are you taking me to a tailor or a black-market arms dealer?”
Mark laughs. “Both, technically. He’s simply choosy about his clientele.”
“You’d better not be tracking dirt again, Grayson,” a voice yells out. “I just swept.”'
Mark flinches like he’s been through this before. “Hi, Art.”
An older man walks out from behind a curtain, silver hair brushed back. He’s wearing a a beige loose shirt, and piece of measuring tape drapes loosely around his neck.
He looks you over with the piercing evaluation of someone who sees more than you want them to.
“So,” he says. “You’re the telepath.”
You nod. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No. Just means we’ll avoid the small talk.”
He motions toward the middle of the room, toward a seat surrounded by mirrors and pinned cloth. “Sit. Tell me what you want to be when people see you.”
You pause.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a say in that.”
Art gives a quiet groan. “Good. Then you’ve arrived to the correct place.”
You sit. Mark lingers behind you but doesn’t hover. Just present. Just… close.
Art grabs a sketchpad and starts painting without ceremony.
“No cape,” he mutters. “You fly. But you’re not dazzling. You don’t want to take up space, but you want people to remember you when you leave it.”
He glances up, evaluating your stance. “You’re not armored. But you’re not soft either. Minimalist. Focused.”
You say nothing, but your silence is confirmation.
He doodles in solitude for a minute longer.
“White base,” he whispers. “Long sleeves. Clean lines. Legs bare, power in exposure, not fragility. You’re not frightened to be noticed. You simply want to control how.”
A black stripe develops under his pencil, slashing from under your neck down the side of the hip and tapering at the thigh. Bold. Unapologetic.
“The ace symbol goes here,” he continues, indicating over the heart. “Not big. Not shouting. But noticeable. That’s not a logo. It’s a warning.”
He adds boots, tall, black, fitting like they were intended to stride over shattered glass.
“Heels?”
Mark clears his throat. “She can fly.”
Art smiles. “Good. Then we can afford a little drama.”
He concludes with a hair accessory, simple, black, clipped over the ear in the shape of an ace. Barely obvious unless you’re looking for it.
“It’ll keep your hair out of your face,” he adds, handing you the sheet. “But more than that, it keeps people from underestimating what’s behind your eyes.”
When you take the sketchpad, you stop breathing for a second.
It’s you.
Not a weapon. Not a shadow.
You.
Sleek, cutting, unarmored but undeniably formidable. The outfit doesn’t shout. It doesn’t ask for permission. It just… is.
Mark leans over your shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispers.
“That’s exactly right.”
You nod once, slowly, the weight of it settling in your chest.
“I’ve never had something that felt like mine,” you remark.
Art shrugs. “Well. You do now.”
He waves a hand, already going to another table. “Come back in three days. We’ll fit it appropriately. Let you break it in.”
You stroll back outdoors with Mark, the sun warm on your cheeks, the city just beginning to bustle back to life. People walk by without understanding what just changed for you.
You go a few paces in quiet. Then Mark replies, “You’ll look good in it.”
You glance over. “I won’t look like anyone else.”
He grins. “That’s kind of the point.”
And for the first time in your life, you stroll around the city without feeling like you’re waiting for someone to give you orders.
For once, you’re just waiting to become.
Three days pass. Fast. Then slow. Then quickly again.
You spend time in quiet training rooms and noisier team briefings, pushing yourself through motion and protocol as your mind travels back to the sketch. The white. The stripe. The sign. You recall the how it felt to imagine yourself in it before it ever existed. Like stepping into a version of your mirror you weren’t frightened to recognize.
Now you’re back in Rosenbaum’s shop, standing behind a changing curtain, staring down at the folded bodysuit in your hands.
It’s soft. Lighter than you imagined. Like it was created for movement, not just function, but control. It doesn’t feel like armor. It feels like a skin you choose.
You pull it on piece by piece. The high collar. The long sleeves. The black line down your side. The fitting shape hugs your frame without squeezing. Your legs naked underneath it, smooth, unshielded, confident without attempting to be.
The boots are tight, cut low with just enough heel to push your center of gravity slightly forward. Art was right they're unworkable in any reasonable battle scenario. But when you stand in them, you feel taller. More deliberate.
As if flying is the obvious next step.
The final touch is the clip, black, simple, slipping into place at the side of your head. No mask. Nothing to hide behind. Just your face.
Just you.
You hear voices on the other side of the curtain. Art muttered something about stitching being too tight around the inside seams. Mark’s voice lower. Distracted.
You take one final breath and step out.
The room gets silent.
Art glances up, offers a pleased nod. “Fits.”
Mark’s already facing you. And he doesn’t say anything at first. Just… blinks.
Hard.
You frown, stepping forward. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says immediately, tripping over his words. “No, it’s good. It’s… pretty good.”
You tilt your head. “You said that like it’s bad.”
Mark massages the back of his neck, suddenly quite interested in the floor. “No, I just… didn’t expect it to, uh...look like that.”
You gaze down at yourself, perplexed. “Is something wrong with it?”
“No! Not at all. It’s fantastic. It’s-” He gestures a hand in your general direction, agitated. “You look… strong. Confident. It fits you.”
You scrutinize his face. His posture. The way his eyes keep darting away and back again, like he’s trying not to look.
You cross your arms. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“No, I’m not,” he says too hastily.
You squint. “You’re sweating.”
“It’s warm in here.”
Art, from the corner, smirks but says nothing. Keeps sewing a glove like he’s not listening, even though you know he’s been monitoring every second of this exchange.
You gaze down at the outfit again. Then at your legs. At the way the fabric cuts high along your hips and fits snug around your waist. You frown.
“Is it too much skin?” you ask. “Should I cover my legs?”
Mark nearly chokes. “No! No. It’s not that. You just-” He takes a breath, tries again. “It’s a look. That’s all.”
You still don’t understand it.
“It’s a functional suit,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Minimal resistance. Lightweight for flying. Nothing to grab or snag. The boots have traction. It’s practical.”
He coughs into his fist. “Sure. Definitely. Also stylish.”
“Art said the clip gives my face more authority.”
Mark nods swiftly. “It does. Your face is very ...authoritative.”
You narrow your eyes.
Mark laughs then, finally giving up the pretense. “Okay, look. I’m not being weird. It’s just...you look pretty good, alright? And I wasn’t prepared for it. That’s all.”
You blink.
“Oh,” you say.
And you’re not sure what to do with that.
Because no one’s ever said it to you before, not in that way. Not without it being a threat or a warning or a control tool. Not just… honest and caught off guard.
You pause, mulling it over.
“Is it a distraction?”
Mark tilts his head. “What?”
“The suit. The design. Me in it. If it’s going to distract the team, I’ll change it.”
His face transforms instantaneously. “No. It’s not about anyone else. It’s you. You feel right in it. You look like yourself. That’s what matters.”
You maintain eye contact for a moment.
Then nod.
“Okay.”
You step back, roll your shoulders once, evaluating the range of motion. The fabric moves with you. Clean. Effortless. And for the first time, you feel like your body and your identity aren’t at battle.
You don’t wear the outfit like armor.
You wear it like a decision.
And Mark, still trying not to stare, clears his throat again, quieter this time.
“You’re gonna knock people on their ass just walking into a room.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Good.”
He laughs.
And somewhere behind him, Art mutters, “Finally. A client who gets it.”
Art provides you a basic black duffle bag to stow the outfit inside, but you don’t use it. You don’t want to take it off yet.
It feels too… right.
You stroll out into the late afternoon sunshine with Mark, the door of Rosenbaum’s workshop clicking shut behind you. You and Mark quickly park the car back at his house and venture outside again. The air smells like the city, warm pavement, automobile pollution, something sweet drifting from a bakery down the block. Distant traffic hums like a lullaby.
You expected to feel vulnerable out here in the suit. Legs exposed, no mask. But instead, you feel grounded. Like a cable has finally been removed from your spine. You’re not waiting for directions. You’re not reporting back to anyone.
You’re simply here.
Mark walks behind you, his customary hoodie pushed down over his shirt with his hands in his pockets. But you notice him stealing looks again, nothing overt. Just flickers of attention, the type that don’t come from obligation or instinct.
You nudge him with your elbow. “Still sweating?”
He huffs a chuckle. “Not my fault Art made you look like a threat and a magazine cover at the same time.”
You smirk. “That sounds like poor planning on your part.”
He grins, eyes catching the faint light. “You want to take it out?”
You tilt your head. “The suit?”
“No,” he responds, kicking a rock off the curb. “You. You want to see how it moves? Stretch its legs a little?”
You pause. Look up to the sky. It’s soft blue now, striped with orange, late enough that the sun’s tilting toward the edge of the horizon, but not gone. The city hums underneath it. You haven’t flown today. Not really.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, like your body’s already replying for you.
“Yeah,” you say. “Let’s patrol.”
He doesn’t require a comm or a command center. He just grins like he’s delighted you said yes, then launches into the air with that casual ease that always looks a bit too dangerous to be graceful, and still is.
You follow him.
You’ve flown before, certainly. Missions. Surveillance. Extractions. But this is different. The suit clings your body just enough to make you feel sleek without constricted. The breeze slips off your skin, whips through your hair, cold against the blush still blazing in your chest.
Mark soars forward, then slows to fall into beat behind you. You’re higher now, above the roofs, above the twinkling city lights just beginning to flicker on. Below, traffic creeps like veins gleaming in the pavement.
“I usually fly solo,” he adds above the wind. “But this isn’t so bad.”
“I don’t talk much on patrol.”
“I figured.”
You gaze at him. He’s not pressing. Just there.
“I never had a partner,” you add.
“First time for everything.”
You both coast into a hover over a series of residential complexes. The metropolis extends out in every direction, softening at the edges, becoming vague. You float there in the quiet together, side by side in the golden hour glow.
Below, a bustle starts. Not major, just a few loud words near a metro door. You catch it before Mark does. Your head turns sharply.
“You hear that?” you ask.
He listens for half a beat, then nods. “North end. Subway steps. Want to check it?”
You drop before he finishes the statement.
You land directly behind a swarm of people scattering. A man is ranting at a woman—loud, unpredictable, arms flailing, her hands up and backing away swiftly. Mark hits the ground near you a minute later. The moment the man sees you both, he pauses. Something about the way you move, deliberate, controlled, shuts his voice down before you ever open your mouth.
Mark doesn’t pose. Doesn’t puff up. He merely moves forward, slow, steady.
“Everything alright here?” he says, quiet and calm.
The guy grumbles, swears under his breath, but the tension leaks out of the moment swiftly. He’s attempting to save face now. Backpedaling. Mark maintains his tone firm but non-threatening, just enough presence to defuse it.
You move in discreetly to steer the woman away, your voice so gentle it hardly touches the air. You inquire whether she’s okay. She nods, shocked but OK, and thanks you without seeing your eyes.
It’s nothing fancy. Nothing worth the news cycle.
But you feel it. That click.
This. This is what the outfit was made for.
When the scene disperses, Mark meets your gaze again.
“You handled that like a pro,” he says.
You shrug. “Didn’t need force.”
“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”
You take to the skies again as darkness begins to descend. The light dims, the city sharpening into contrast below, fluorescents, taillights, windows gleaming like memories.
You don’t converse for a time. Just fly.
The longer you're up here, the less your thoughts rush. The less you feel like you’re viewing your life from behind glass. You don’t know how to express it, but it feels like... being. Like your breath is your own again.
Eventually, you and Mark fall on the edge of a rooftop, right above a row of brownstones.
“You good?” he says.
You nod. “I needed that.”
He studies you for a beat, then glances away with a little smile. “You know, you didn’t even hesitate.”
“To do what?”
“To help. To move. To be this. You pretend like you don’t belong, but the second things get real, you’re almost halfway into the sky.”
You think about that for a second. Then remark, gently, “Maybe I just haven’t had a reason to stop running.”
Mark catches your gaze, his smile fading into something gentler. “Well… you’re not running now.”
You look out over the city.
He’s right.
You’re not.
You’re floating stationary. And strangely, it doesn’t seem like weakness.
It feels like an arrival.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The city has gone quiet.
You and Mark sit on his roof, legs stretched across the shingles, the wind brushing soft around your ankles. The sky is settling into that deep navy just before full night, and the stars faint, flickering, try to push through the haze of city light. Down below, life moves. But up here?
It’s still.
You don’t talk at first. You’ve both said enough today.
Mark leans back on his palms, fingers spread across the rough surface, and sighs. It’s not loud. Just enough to feel it leave his chest.
“You’re really good at this,” he says finally, voice low.
You glance at him. “Flying?”
“No. Well, yeah, that too. But I mean… everything. The patrol. The way you handled that guy in the subway. It didn’t even feel like we were trying. You just got it.”
You shrug. “It was instinct.”
Mark smiles faintly. “Yeah, but I’ve been doing this a while and I still overthink it. You? You moved like it was nothing.”
“I’ve had practice,” you say
.
“I’ve had practice too,” he replies, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You just make it look cooler.”
You smirk, but your stomach tightens, not from nerves. From something else. From the way his praise doesn’t sound obligatory. From the fact that he means it.
He shifts, pulling his legs up, resting his arms over his knees. “You know, I kept thinking about earlier. When we were flying.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”
Mark hesitates. Then, more quietly. “You were smiling.”
You blink.
“I didn’t know I was,” you say.
“Well, you were,” he murmurs. “Just for a second. Right after we left the ground. You didn’t even realize it. And I thought... I don’t know, it was cool. Seeing you like that. Like you weren’t carrying everything.”
You look away.
That same knot forms behind your ribs, the ache that comes when someone sees something in you before you do.
“You ever think about what we’d be like if we weren’t in all this?” he asks, carefully. “Like… if we met at school or something?”
You tilt your head. “What, like in a hallway?”
Mark laughs softly. “Yeah. You’d probably hate me.”
“I’d probably ignore you.”
“I’d definitely try too hard to get your attention.”
You smile at that. “You still do.”
He gives you a look. “Hey, I’m cool.”
You give him a flattered one. “You’re a dork.”
He shrugs. “Guilty.”
And somehow, it lands, soft and warm, like the laugh you’re still not quite used to letting out. He chuckles with you, and it lingers, the quiet falling comfortably afterward.
Then he goes still.
You don’t notice it at first. Just the way his hand moves closer. Almost brushing against yours.
And then his voice shifts low, uncertain.
“Can I ask you something?”
You nod.
“Back there. On the roof. When we were fighting together, I felt like I could just… be. With you.”
You meet his eyes.
“I don’t feel that a lot,” he adds. “Even with everything that’s happened. Even with Eve. Things are good with her, but it’s… different. It’s complicated.”
You don’t press. But your chest tightens.
He looks at you then, not searching, just seeing.
“I don’t know what this is,” he says, voice nearly a whisper. “But I know it’s not nothing.”
The air shifts.
And it’s not dramatic. It’s not lightning. It’s not cinematic.
It’s a breath.
A glance.
A choice.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But suddenly his hand is in yours, and his lips are touching yours, and it’s not fireworks, it’s not a cliché. It’s subtle. Quiet. A gradual growing warmth in your chest that spreads like thaw.
He kisses you like he’s terrified of pushing too far, and you kiss him back like you’re trying to comprehend what intimacy is. Your hands raise to touch his face, cautious at first, then steady. You go closer, legs overlapping his, the feel of his body anchoring you. His hands reach your waist, his breath increasing as you press against him, gasping quietly when you feel the hardness between his legs.
Your skin prickles.
You’ve never done this. You’ve trained. You’ve sparred. You’ve killed. But this? This is not something they prepped you for in any sterile hall under government supervision.
Your mouth breaks from his. “I’m...Mark. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He clutches the back of your neck, his thumb touching your jaw. “It’s okay. Just... stay with me.”
You nod, uncertain. But you lean toward him as his kisses run down your neck, his hands going beneath your shirt to explore your sides. The sensation makes you twitch. It’s not awful. It’s overwhelming. Every nerve feels like it’s sensing touch for the first time.
You breathe sharply as his touch sweeps across your chest. You’re not moaning. You’re not crying out. You’re processing. Quiet, restrained, yet completely whirling within.
Mark draws back just enough to murmur, “We can stop whenever you want.”
You don’t want to quit. Not yet.
You kiss him again, deeper this time, hands in his hair, hips thrusting forward. The friction makes you quiver. You feel soaked already, heat coiling in your tummy, in your thighs.
His hand pushes the fabric of your suit to the side, and your breath catches. He touches you softly, tenderly, fingertips locating where you’re wet through, and the moan that slips from your throat is faint but eager.
He groans your name with a breathy moan as he ruts his hard-on against your bare pussy, feeling you soak his sweatpants. “Fuck…”
You clutch his shoulder tightly, your nails digging into his skin. “Don’t stop.”
He kisses you again, harder now, tongue persistent, fingers caressing your clit in slow circles. You cling to him, lost, arousal building like a stormcloud.
Then—
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
The phone buzzes from his hoodie pocket.
Twice.
Mark tenses. His breath hitches, lips still close to yours. You feel him falter. His hand stiffens where it rests against your side.
You already know.
But he pulls away slowly, blinking, still dazed.
He fumbles for the phone.
EVE: Hey, just checking in. Can I call you?
You sit back readjusting your uniform before placing your hands in your lap, swallowing down the heat still rising in your chest.
Mark doesn’t say anything.
He just stares at the screen like he forgot there were other people outside this rooftop.
“I should… I should answer,” he murmurs.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He stands, walking a few steps away, answering the call with a voice far softer than the one he just used with you.
“Hey… yeah. No, it’s fine. I’m...just outside. Everything’s okay.”
You don’t listen. Not really.
You just look back up at the sky.
And for a moment, you let yourself feel it fully.
That it was real.
That you would’ve let it happen.
That he almost did too.
And when he returns to sit beside you, quiet, a little distant, phone back in his pocket, you don’t say anything.
He doesn’t either.
Because the silence knows. And then it breaks.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Fuck...”
You say nothing. Your breathing is still heavy. Your costume is still rumpled. Your thighs are still damp. And the cold rush of truth is sneaking in fast.
“I can’t do this,” he replies, voice low and desperate. “I can’t do this to her.”
You draw your knees up, put your arms over them. You nod. Not because you’re alright, but because you understand.
“I shouldn’t have...” He stops himself. His hands tighten into fists. “I didn’t mean to-”
You cut him off, voice even. Cold. “I know.”
He glances at you, eyes wide and unhappy.
And suddenly he lifts off. Just like that.
You’re left alone, knees pulled to your chest, your heart louder than your thoughts. The stars remain beaming like nothing happened.
You stay there for a long time, until it eventually falls quiet.
The roof is frigid now.
Or maybe that’s simply how it feels.
You ascend off the rooftop, leisurely and quietly, the wind tugging at your body. You rise over the city, and you don’t look back.
And it aches.
It aches like a choice that wasn’t actually a choice at all.
It stings like a kiss that came too late, and a farewell that came too soon.
It stings because it was genuine, and you weren’t ready for what it would cost.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
Mark didn’t fly home.
He could’ve. He should’ve. But the second your lips left his, the second your eyes lowered and you whispered “I should go,” something inside him unraveled. And as you went to the skies and disappeared over the city, it felt like the whole damn air departed with you.
So he walked instead.
It was late. Too late. He didn’t check the time. Didn’t bother thinking about how ridiculous this was. About how rapidly the world may come apart under his feet if he didn’t solve it right now.
All he knew was Eve was home.
And he couldn’t let this sit.
The street outside her home was quiet, just the faint glimmer of a streetlight and the distant roar of a passing automobile. His shoes scuffed the sidewalk as he halted in front of her house, his reflection catching briefly in the dark glass of the front lobby.
His stomach turned.
He climbed the porch stairs two at a time, stopped at her door, fist clenched, breath unsteady.
He knocked.
It was a moment before she replied, the door creaking open just enough for him to see her, messy bun, bare feet, sweatshirt undoubtedly stolen from him some months ago. Her eyes widened at first, but not from astonishment.
From knowing.
“Hey,” she said warily.
Mark stood there, heart thumping against his ribs. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside without a word.
The place smelled like eucalyptus and the cinnamon tea she always made too strong. The faint hum of an creaky fan buzzed near the window. Everything was familiar. Too familiar. He didn’t deserve this type of tranquility, not just now.
Eve leaned on the counter. Arms crossed.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He let out a breath. “I… I screwed up.”
She didn’t speak. Just waited, mouth tense, gaze narrowing ever so little. Like she knew.
Mark brushed his hands over his face. “I kissed someone.”
The words plummeted like concrete in the gap between them.
Eve’s face didn’t shift soon away. But he saw it. In her shoulders. In her jaw.
“Who?” she asked.
Mark says your name.
Silence.
Just the creak of the fan and the blood beating in his ears.
Eve pushed off the counter gently, arms unfolding.
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
He wouldn't sugarcoat it. Didn’t try.
Eve blinked, once. “So you came straight here.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Because you felt guilty.”
Mark looked down. “Because I couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
Her face didn’t twist with wrath. That wasn’t Eve. She didn’t shout. She didn’t erupt. She shattered in smaller, harsher ways.
“Did you want to?” she inquired. “Before it happened. Did you think about it?”
Mark hesitated. His quiet was louder than anything he could’ve uttered.
She nodded once, like that was all the response she needed.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he hurried. “We were patrolling, and talking, and… I don’t know, something about being up there with her it just felt… easy.”
“Easy,” she repeated, voice clipped.
“I don’t mean better. I mean, quiet. No pressure. No expectations.”
Eve’s arms folded again. “So I’m pressure.”
“No,” he answered hastily. “No, Eve. You’re...God, you’re everything. I love you.”
“But you kissed her.”
“I didn’t stop myself,” he said. “And I should’ve. But I didn’t.”
Eve stared beyond him, toward the main entrance. Her voice sounded out softer now. “Was that the only time?”
He shook his head. “Yeah. I swear. It didn’t go farther. It could have." He admits honestly, "But I stopped.”
“Because of me.”
He nodded. “You texted. It snapped me out of it.”
“Not because you wanted to stop.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
She groaned, walked around him, pacing a little. “You’ve been off lately. Distant. I thought it was stress. Missions. Your dad. Cecil. But it wasn’t just that, was it?”
Mark stared at her then, shame growing behind his eyes.
“I didn’t plan to fall into this. I didn’t even aware I was… thinking about her like that until it was too late.”
“But you did think about it.”
He nodded, barely.
She swallowed heavily. Her voice was barely staying steady now. “Do you have feelings for her?”
“I don’t know.” The words tore out of him, ragged. “That’s the worst part. I don’t even know. There’s this… pull. And I can’t understand it, and I hate it, because I never wanted to feel that way about anybody else. I never wanted this to happen. Not like this. Not to you.”
Eve gazed at him, long and quiet.
“I trusted you,” she said. “And you kissed someone else.”
“I came straight here.”
“And now what?” she questioned, coming closer. “You expect me to forgive you just because you’re being honest?”
“No. I don’t expect anything. I just...I couldn’t not tell you.”
She shook her head. Her voice fell low. “Do you even realize what that means for us? For me?”
Mark walked near her. “Please don’t-"
She added, harsher now. “I’m standing in the middle of something that’s already cracking. And I’m trying to figure out if I’m dumb for still wanting to hold it together.”
Mark’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You’re not stupid. You’re not. This is my fault.”
“You’re right,” she said. “It is.”
And that quiet? It hurt more than yelling ever could.
“I need space, Mark,” she remarked after a lengthy silence. “Not to punish you. To think. To breathe. To remember what it feels like to be in this without knowing whether I’m going to get blindsided again.”
He stepped back, nodding gently. His throat felt constricted. Like words were still stuck in it, but none of them mattered anymore.
“I love you,” he murmured one more time, voice barely holding steady.
Eve didn’t answer.
Not because she didn’t feel it.
But since just now, love didn’t seem like enough.
So he departed. Quiet. Careful. He didn’t slam the door.
He didn’t glance back.
And Eve stood in her kitchen, looking at the counter, her breath quickening as the tears finally spilled free.
Not because he lied.
But because he told the truth.
And it broke her anyway.
The door shut behind him with a click that seemed too decisive.
Mark stood in the hallway, gazing at the flaking paint on Eve’s apartment door. His breath was shallow, like he’d just run a marathon. Like his body hadn’t caught up to the knowledge that nothing was following him, except the repercussions of what he’d done.
He didn’t move for a long moment.
Didn’t weep.
Didn’t even breathe correctly.
He merely remained there, listening to the echo of what she didn’t say.
Because that’s what stung the most, Eve hadn’t asked him to stay. She hadn’t yelled, hadn’t hurled anything, hadn’t fallen into tears in front of him. She’d looked him in the face and informed him, calmly, that she wanted space.
That she didn’t know if she could trust him anymore.
And she was right.
He didn’t deserve to be trusted.
His hands were still shaking as he walked down the steps, one at a time. He didn’t fly home. Couldn’t. Flying seemed too… intentional. Too heroic. He didn’t feel like a hero tonight.
He felt like a coward in a hoodie.
By the time he walked out onto the sidewalk, the sky had become absolutely dark. The type of darkness that devoured things. The sort that made the streetlights feel faint, not reassuring. Somewhere far off, a vehicle alarm went off. A dog barked. And the city kept breathing like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Mark pushed his hands into his pockets and started walking.
He didn’t know where he was headed. He just knew he couldn’t go home.
Not yet.
Not to the lonely stillness of his house where everything would reverberate. Not to his phone, still vibrating from texts he hadn’t replied to. Not to the sofa where he’d been with Eve just two nights ago, laughing at a repeat, her hand in his like it was always intended to be there.
He couldn’t face it yet.
So he walked.
Past closed enterprises. Past couples holding hands. Past the deli they used to purchase sandwiches from on Saturdays, the one where Eve always asked for more mustard even though she never completed her sandwich. Past recollections he hadn’t asked to remember.
And all the while, one name kept circling his thoughts like a hook dragging through the ocean.
You.
He hated how much he was thinking about you.
Hated how it wasn’t just the kiss, though God, that kiss was still etched into the back of his memory. The way your body moved against his and the way you gazed at him just before. The way your fingers had trembled for a second when you touched his hoddie. The way it had felt like an instinct.
It had seemed like fate.
That was what worried him the most.
It wasn’t about chemistry. Or adrenaline. It was something else. Something calmer. Something that had been growing from the minute you entered into his world.
You were different. Not because you were more powerful. Not because she you weird. But because you looked at him like he was still finding things out and that was okay. Because you didn’t expect him to be anything more than what he was in time. Because you didn’t see Omni-Man when you glanced at him.
You understood him.
And it fucking terrified him.
Because Eve had seen him too.
And he’d still broken that.
Everything was loud in his brain now.
What the hell did he do?'
He adored Eve. He knew that. He enjoyed the way she challenged him. The way she never let him get away with anything. The way her grin made everything else feel a bit lighter.
They’d gone through hell together.
She’d been there after Nolan. After the fallout. After the darkest night of his life. She’d stood alongside him when the world wasn’t sure if he was going to turn out exactly like his father.
She believed in him.
And still… he kissed someone else. Almost fucked someone else.
He moaned into his hands, the sound low and nasty and embarrassed.
It wasn’t simply the guilt. It was the confusion. The pull.
He didn’t even know you that well. Half of your conversations were coated in trauma, but you understood each other. You barely talked, like you were frightened of expressing too much. But when you did talk, when you were yourself for a second, it impacted him like nothing else.
He observed you struggling to keep yourself back. Saw how afraid you were of being known.
And he kept getting dragged closer regardless.
What did that say about him?
Was it some warped part of him that constantly needed to mend something? Or was it worse? Was it real?
He didn’t want it to be genuine. Not like this.
He didn’t want to have damaged something solid with Eve for a sensation he couldn’t even define.
And yet.
It hadn’t seemed like a mistake at the moment.
It had felt like something bursting free.
He slumped back on the bench and peered up into the sky, blinking hard.
There were no stars tonight. Not in this region of the city.
Just clouds. Just static.
Just guilt.
He grabbed his phone out of his pocket. No new messages. Just Eve’s latest one, unread now, sitting like a stone in his inbox.
He wanted to call her. To say anything that would make things less complex. Less hefty. To tell her he was sorry again, that he’d do everything to rewind the night and make a better choice. To not hurt her.
But he couldn’t lie to her again. Not even by omission.
Because the reality was, you weren't going away.
Not from his head.
Not from his chest.
Not from the version of himself he wasn’t ready to face again.
The one that kept wondering what might’ve occurred if the phone hadn’t rung.
Would you have stopped?
Would he have pulled away?
Or would he have lingered in your arms a bit longer?
Would you have allowed him to?
Mark closed his eyes and tilted his head back, the cold metal of the bench pushing on his spine.
He felt divided in two.
One part of him stayed grounded in what he had with Eve, a love that was built, tested, weathered, and true.
And another portion drifting somewhere else completely, attracted toward something new, unexpected, and unknown.
You weren't safe.
Not emotionally. Not logistically. Not even spiritually, if he was being honest.
You fucked him up mentally.
You don't need him. Not in the manner Eve did. You didn’t ask for anything.
And maybe that was why he kept thinking about you.
Because you don't need him.
But he can't stop desiring you anyway.
That pull worried him.
Because that suggested something had changed. Not simply in the present. But inside him.
And whatever came next, whether Eve forgave him or didn’t, whether you maintained your distance or didn’t, it wasn’t going to be easy.
There weren’t going to be neat answers.
Just options.
And the person he chooses to be after this would define the rest of things.
He gazed at the phone again.
Then put it aside.
Tonight, he didn’t call anyone.
He just sat on the bench until the sun started to rise behind the skyscrapers, and the weight in his chest ceased feeling like punishment.
And started feeling like consequence.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The call came in at 6:04 a.m., a subtle ripple over the Guardians’ comms. Low priority, suburban perimeter breach, unidentified metahuman causing structure damage and public fear. Just noise, on paper. Nothing that screamed world-ending danger.
No interdimensional gateways.
No Mark variations blasting holes through reality.
But it was still a mission.
And you’d be lying if you said it didn’t mean something.
Cecil didn’t even give you the complete rundown. Just a truncated transmission, as usual. “Rogue metahuman. Kinetic projection. Handle it cleanly. Try not to break too much real estate.” Then he cut the line.
Typical.
You geared up in your freshly washed uniform. It stung to even look at now. The others had already assembled in the hangar area, geared and half-alert, chatting like this was just another day. Rex cast you a glance as you entered, part doubt, half something unreadable, and murmured something about “seeing what you’re really made of.”
You didn’t react.
You never truly did.
By the time you touched down in the area, smoke was already snaking into the sky. Split pavement. Fractured siding. A hydrant split out and flowing like a ruptured artery onto the street. Civilians yelling. Running. Doors banging shut.
The man at the heart of it all was towering, maybe six-foot-three, arms thick with strain, and his skin shining faintly like fractured magma. His strength emanated in pulses, kinetic shockwaves ripping through the ground with every stride he made.
He didn’t appear afraid. He looked furious.
Like the world had failed him and this cul-de-sac was going to pay the consequence.
You didn’t wait.
You moved alone, hardly recognizing the directives being yelled over communications. The others were fanning out. Coordinating. Mark, Invincible, was already in the air, collecting falling debris, protecting a collapsed carport with his body.
“Ace,” his voice crackled through. “North side. Help Monster Girl with evac. He’s headed toward the school.”
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t even glance his way.
Your heels shattered over pavement as you marched straight into the demolition zone.
He noticed you then.
The metahuman pivoted, arms lighting up with the same molten energy. “You think you can stop me?” he hissed, spitting blood from his mouth. “You don’t even know what I am.”
You didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
Just lifted one hand.
The pressure reached him before he could charge. A harsh, unseen wave that snatched him off his feet and smashed him against the side of a parked SUV. Metal moaned. Glass broke. His body bounced once, then slumped to the ground, startled.
You were on him before he could recover.
A second wave, sharper, more focused, crashed into his nervous system like a hammer through wet paper.
He yelled.
Twitched.
Tried to rise.
You stepped closer.
Mark fell heavily a few yards behind you. “Ace, hey—stop. He’s down. You got him.”
You didn’t look at him.
You didn’t stop.
You lifted your hand again, fingers coiled like a vice around nothing, and everything.
The metahuman thrashed as his synapses started to circuit out.
Mark’s voice came again, louder now, closer. “Ace, that’s enough.”
But it wasn’t.
It wasn’t enough. Because the scream beneath your ribs was still there. The flavor of a kiss that never should’ve occurred. The way he touched you so intimately. Mark was never yours. But it didn't hurt any less.
The recollection of Mark’s phone buzzing. Of her name on his lips. Of how silly you’d been to imagine freedom would feel like serenity.
This was what freedom gave you, power without purpose. Autonomy without direction. Pain you had no one to pass off to anymore.
You squeezed harder.
And he started to black out.
Then Mark stroked your shoulder, gently, but strong.
“Hey.”
That stopped you.
Not the touch.
The voice.
You glared at him, finally.
And you hated that it still ached.
He saw it, whatever it was, in your eyes. And maybe he understood. Maybe he didn’t. But he didn’t say anything else.
You released him.
Turned. Walked away.
Away from Mark.
You ended up alone.
Somewhere high, somewhere corroded, the wind screaming in your ears and the city stretching beneath you like it didn’t know your name. You're perched on the brink of the fire escape of your new room, legs dangling. The fight was finished. You’d won.
But it didn’t feel like anything.
It didn’t feel like freedom.
It felt like remorse, reaching out into your chest.
Because you’d tasted something...someone you weren’t allowed to crave. And now all it did was ruin what you thought you were building.
And the worst part?
He looked at you like he still cared.
Like some part of him wishes he didn’t.
And it might’ve hurt more than anything else.
The room is quiet.
Sterile white walls, no posters. No decorations. Just a bed too neatly made, a desk with unopened notes, and the shadow of someone trying very hard not to take up space.
You sit on the edge of the mattress, still in your uniform. You haven’t taken it off. You haven’t even moved since you arrived back except to shut the door behind you.
Not that anybody would come searching.
Especially not him.
You breathe in. Slow. Measured. But your chest is still tight, your throat raw, and your fingers won’t stop shaking.
You should change. Shower. Sleep. But your mind won’t let go of any of it.
The kiss.
The suit.
The way Mark felt against you.
The mission.
The rage.
It feels like you’re suffocating inside your own skin.
You gaze at the mirror on the closet door, see the reflection of your suit in the faint light. The white long-sleeved leotard, the broad black stripe that hugs your side. The ace emblem embroidered into the chest like a mockery. The black heels that were never made for combat, simply for appearing like something sharp and worth seeing.
You thought it would mean something.
That owning a suit, being seen, would mend something inside you.
But all it’s done is show how lost you truly are.
You raise your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself, forehead crushed on the fabric of your gloves.
And you remember.
You recall the feeling of Mark’s lips on yours. How warm his touch felt on your waist. How you leaned toward him because, for a moment, you imagined he’d catch you.
That he wanted to.
And maybe he did.
But not enough.
Not enough to stay.
Not enough to pick you.
You should’ve known better.
You did know better.
You weren’t ready for any of this.
Not the team.
Not the mission.
Not him.
Freedom was meant to feel like power. Like control. Like finally owning yourself after a lifetime of being someone else’s weapon.
But all it’s done is show you how wrong you are. How awful it is to carry yourself and no one else. How terrible it is to make your own choices and learn they don’t necessarily go someplace better.
And now?
You’re terrified.
Because you were powerful today. You were everything they claimed they wanted you to be.
And still, you almost murdered someone.
Not because you had to.
Not because you were ordered to.
But because it felt good.
Because it was simpler than feeling the anguish of being unloved.
You wonder what would’ve occurred if Mark hadn’t stopped you.
Would you have gone through with it?
Would you be sitting here today, claiming to be human, pretending to be someone worth saving?
Or would you be locked up again, the world confirming what you’ve always feared, you’re not a human.
You’re a threat they haven’t found out how to bury yet.
Your eyes burn, but you don’t weep.
You don’t know how to anymore. Not really.
The tears come in your chest now. Silent. Heavy.
You grab your arms harder, forcing yourself into something smaller, something safer. Maybe if you shrink sufficiently, you’ll stop existing. Maybe that’s the only way to endure this.
You think about Mark again. The way he stared at you after the fight.
Not furious. Not scared.
Just… sad.
And that makes it worse.
Because you don’t want his pity. You don’t want his compassion. You don’t want to be the girl he feels horrible for when he goes home to someone else.
You wanted to be something more.
And now you can’t even look at him.
It hurts too much.
Every aspect of him is wrapped up with the thing you almost had. The kiss that should’ve meant everything but just left you emptiness. The way he stood next to you like maybe, just maybe, he felt it too.
And the way he walked away when you needed him to stay.
You sink your face deeper into your knees.
You’re not ready for this.
Not the outfit.
Not the name.
Not the weight of striving to be good when all you’ve ever been is effective.
And you don’t know how to tell anyone that.
You don’t know how to tell you’re drowning while everyone’s shouting for your rising.
So you sit in quiet.
Alone in your room. In your skin. In the echo of the life you thought you desired.
And you wonder, not for the first time.
What if you’re not supposed to be free?
What if the cage was safer?
What if the leash was the only thing stopping you from coming apart?
You breathe in again.
And this time, it catches.
And for just a second, you think, maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.
Maybe you’ll walk out of this tower and keep wandering.
Maybe no one will stop you.
Not even him.
And maybe that’s what you deserve.
But instead, you're here. Wide awake. Staring into nothing.
Because even with everything you’ve gained, the suit, the team, a room with a door that only you have the key to—something feels off. Like the ground beneath your feet is shifting again. Like the peace you fought for is about to split open and swallow you whole.
You can’t shake it.
Not Mohawk Mark’s voice. Not the way he looked at you like you belonged to him in another life. Not the things he said, that in his world, you died because you mattered.
That love made you weak. That he killed you to prove he could survive without you.
You don’t want to believe any version of Mark could do that.
But some part of you remembers the way this Mark flinched when you kissed him. How fast he picked up the phone. How fast he disappeared afterward.
You close your eyes.
Breathe through the tightness in your chest.
You told yourself you weren’t going to let this become something bigger than it needed to be. That the kiss was just a mistake. A moment. Something to be forgotten like the blood on your gloves and the cracks in the walls. But forgetting has never been your strength.
And that moment, his hands on your waist, your heart in your throat, the groan he made when he leaned into you, it doesn’t feel like something that wants to be erased.
And maybe that’s what’s eating you alive now.
Not that he kissed you.
But that a part of you still wants him to do it again.
You hate that about yourself.
You hate how he’s always on your mind, how his voice lingers behind your thoughts when you’re supposed to be focused. How you catch yourself watching him when he’s not looking, staring at the muscular curve of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches when he thinks no one can see. How he calls your name in the field with that same urgency he used the night of the kiss, and your chest tightens, your hands shake.
You hate that you let him in.
Because now that he’s there, you can’t get him out. And you’re not sure you even want to.
But you should.
Because he’s not yours.
Because he’s never been.
Because every time he looks at you now, you see the apology in his eyes before he even says a word.
And that might be worse than hate.
Your arms folded tightly around yourself, trying to bury the ache in your spine. The night air is colder than usual. You let it bite at your skin, let it anchor you.
You think about the team.
About the way Shrinking Rae looks at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re a bomb waiting to go off. The way Rex still jokes, but never too close. The way Black Samson nods at you like a general checking his weapons, and Monster Girl, who sometimes gives you these rare, quiet glances, like she’s been where you are, and doesn’t know how to warn you without breaking her own rules.
They accepted you.
Or they’re trying to.
But it’s not belonging.
It’s not home.
It’s standing on a stage with a mask you barely fit into and hoping no one notices it’s slipping.
You press your palms to your knees, try to steady your breathing. The night is too quiet now. Your thoughts too loud. You think about running. About disappearing. About flying so far and so fast that not even Cecil could find you.
But where would you go?
Who would you be?
You’re not a civilian. Not a soldier. You’re not a ghost anymore, but you’re not alive in the way they are, either.
You’re something else.
Something between.
And no one taught you how to be that.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The lab was hidden deep, behind concrete and steel, beneath miles of stillness and secrecy. No windows, no doors in or out without biometric approval, and no clocks to chart the passing of time. The only light emanated from machines, flickering displays, backlit panels, luminous tubes lined the walls. The type of light that didn’t warm. It merely buzzed, unnatural and sterile.
Angstrom Levy stood in the heart of it all.
His stance was slumped, fingers twitching at his sides like they were attempting to grip something unseen. The air was heavy with the stench of ozone and machine grease, and the faint buzz of electricity flowing through torn wires permeated every inch of the chamber. Around him, displays hummed with data. Chaotic strings of code. DNA helixes placed over skewed timeframes. Multiversal coordinates that flickered and altered without rhythm.
“She doesn’t belong,” he mumbled to himself, walking between two towering tanks. Inside one, something floated—limbs coiled tight, like it was trying to relearn how to be alive. The other tank hissed with a modest release of pressure, liquids swirling faintly. “Not a variant. Not an echo. Something else. Something worse.”
He stretched out, palm skimming the glass, eyes unfocused and agitated. Half his face still carried the scars, sutures gleaming dimly beneath pale skin where a dozen other selves had previously fallen into him. He twitched as memories raced across his head, too many voices piled atop one other, all chanting the same name in different forms of terror.
Her.
The screen next to him showed her, your face, captured from the conflict in the city. Blurred by smoke, somewhat warped from heatwaves, but recognizable. You stood in the debris like a myth, eyes ablaze, power flowing from your pores. One hand lifted. The other clutched. The roadway broke around you in concentric spirals, metal and glass bending as though the air itself had yielded.
He gazed at the footage.
“She’s wrong,” he muttered. “Wrong for all of them.”
A red line traveled over the multiversal map, linking your image to dozens of branching worlds. All corrupted. All blinking. All marked by the same abnormality.
You.
Angstrom lunged for the console, fingers quivering as he keyed in a sequence. New data filled the monitor. Memory echoes. Conflicting paths. Variants falling, timelines unraveling, whole worlds folding in on themselves after touch.
“Mark always breaks,” he mumbled, striding faster now.
“Omni-Man always leaves. Eve always bends. But her?”
His voice sank. “She changes branches of reality.”
He stopped moving.
“She writes new ones.”
For a minute, he was silent. The sole sound was the repetitive thrum of the motors and the steady exhalation of the confinement chambers.
Then he proceeded toward the rear wall.
With a harsh hiss, a panel slid aside, revealing another room, darker, colder. Inside, something altered.
Something huge. Muffled breathing. The faint scratch of claws against concrete. A low growl, half-formed, half-choked, like a menace learning to speak.
Angstrom didn’t flinch.
“She thinks she’s free now,” he muttered into the dark.
“She thinks she’s choosing. Fighting. Loving. Belonging.”
He grinned.
It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Let her. Let her believe that long enough to drown. Because when it all goes apart, when the boy breaks again, when the Guardians disintegrate, and there’s no one there to bring her back, she’ll come to me.”
He went back inside the lab, locking the chamber behind him.
And the television, still flickering in front of him, displayed your face again. Frozen in mid-air. Eyes full of fire and agony.
Angstrom peered at it, silent now.
Almost reverent.
“You weren’t born to save this world,” he said. “You were born to end it.”
