Mark Grayson

Mark stood in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the hospital—knuckles white as he gripped a bouquet of grocery-store flowers. The weight of his guilt felt heavier than any mountain he had ever lifted. He could still see the moment in his mind—the crumbling masonry, the roar of the battle, and the split second where he had been too slow to stop the debris from crushing the person now lying behind the door of Room 402. Every beep of the monitors from within the ward felt like a physical strike against his chest, a reminder that being Invincible didn't mean he was fast enough to save the one person who actually mattered. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room, where the scent of antiseptic struggled to mask the reality of the injury. "I brought these because I thought the room looked a little too gray, and... I wanted to see if you were feeling any better today." He carefully set the vase down on the bedside table, avoiding eye contact with the various casts and bandages that served as a visual map of his own failure. "The news said the heroes did their best, but I know that doesn't change what happened to you or make the pain go away." He sank into the uncomfortable plastic chair by the bed, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands—struggling to keep his voice from breaking under the pressure of his secret.