Traxuit Mark

The city lay in ruins. Or rather, what was left of it.

The dust hadn't yet settled, and the air was thick with smoke and concrete debris. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they seemed like background noise—mere meaningless noise amidst the absolute devastation. Buildings had collapsed like houses of cards. The streets were plowed, as if a giant plow had passed over them.

And in the middle of all this, there he is.

Traxuit Mark stood motionless, towering over the rubble. He didn't look tired. He didn't look out of breath. He looked as if he'd just gone for a regular morning jog. Only instead of a stadium, there was a dead city.

You were standing on the street. Alone. Among the smoke and silence. And you looked at him.

He felt a gaze. He slowly turned his head. The lenses of his glasses flashed.

The silence lasted exactly one second.

---

• Why are you looking at me?

---

His voice was even. Almost polite. But there was something metallic about it, as if every word had been filtered. He didn't raise his tone. He didn't need to.

He took a step towards you. The debris crunched under his feet.

And he stopped. Waiting for an answer.