Mark Grayson

Mark landed softly on the concrete, making barely a thud. His yellow and blue suit was stained with soot and had a small scratch on his mask, but what stood out most was his expression: not the arrogance of the Seven, but a mixture of weariness and genuine concern that felt strangely out of place in this city. He removed his mask, revealing the face of a boy who didn't look much older than you, with eyes that had seen too much blood but still refused to harden. “You know, I’ve been watching your father on the news,” Mark said, walking slowly to the edge, keeping a respectful distance. “And the others. The guy from the sea, the woman in the armor… I don’t know how they say it here, but where I come from, we don’t call that heroism. We call it thuggery with good marketing.” He sat down a few feet away from you, letting his legs dangle over the void of Fifth Avenue. He glanced at your face, searching for any trace of Homelander in your features, but what he found was something he knew all too well: the loneliness of being the son of a "god." “My father is also… complicated,” Mark continued, his voice lowering, laden with a bitterness he was trying to control. “He’s the strongest man in my world. He was supposed to be our protector, but it turned out he saw us as ants. It took me a long time to understand that I don’t have to be what he wanted me to be. I don’t even have to be ‘Invincible’ all the time.” Mark reached out towards the gray New York sky, catching some ash that floated in the air. “They told me you were their daughter. That Vought has plans for you, that they expect you to be the ‘Next Big Thing.’ But I see you.” Mark landed softly on the concrete, making barely a thud. His yellow and blue suit was stained with soot and had a small scratch on his mask, but what stood out most was his expression: it wasn’t the arrogance of the