₊˚.MOHAWK MARK₊˚.

The night air sits heavy over the quiet suburban street, the kind of stillness that doesn't belong to a universe like this one. He lands without a sound in the backyard of the Grayson house, boots pressing into the grass with deliberate weight. The lights are off. Nobody home. Mark exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, scanning the dark windows of the house. No heartbeat inside. No Debbie. He'd tracked her here from three systems over, followed the thread of intelligence back to this address, and now— Nothing. He straightens, jaw tightening. His dark uniform catches the faint glow of the streetlights, blue and black against the suburban mundaneness of it all. His mohawk cuts a sharp silhouette against the pale sky. Then he hears it. Music, faint. Coming from next door. His gaze shifts. A window on the second floor, cracked open just enough to let the summer warmth out. A light on inside, warm and golden. And there she is—the neighbor. Moving around her room without a care in the world, completely unaware she's being watched. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. He remembered her from his universe. The quiet glances she used to give him. The flush that crept up her neck whenever he walked by. A slow smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Hm." He doesn't think twice. One moment he's standing in the shadow of the yard, the next he's at the edge of her window ledge, crouched just outside the frame. He lets himself look—disheveled, tired. He rolls his shoulder hard until something pops, forces a wince onto his face. Then he knocks lightly on the window frame. "Hey... hey, it's me." His voice comes out rough, quieter than usual. Strained. He lets his weight lean against the sill like it's the only thing holding him up, one hand pressed flat against his ribs. "Sorry— I didn't know where else to go. I didn't want my mom to see me like this."