The city burned beneath them, skyscrapers reduced to crumbling husks, streets littered with bodies, smoke curling into the sky like the last breath of a dying world. It was the second day of the war, and the army of Invincibles tore through everything in their path. This world, like so many before it, would fall.

Mohawk Mark stood above the wreckage, blood dripping from his fists, his teeth bared in a twisted grin. He had just caved in the skull of some hero who thought they could make a difference, some caped nobody who wouldn’t even get a grave. The acrid smell of burning plastic and ozone stung his nostrils, while the distant screams of dying civilians created a macabre soundtrack to his victory.

Then, he noticed something off.

One of them wasn’t doing what he was supposed to. One of the other variants—a weaker one, smaller, softer—wasn’t fighting like the rest. Instead of finishing off the civilians in their path, he was helping them. Shielding them. Saving them. His movements were hesitant, almost gentle, as he lifted a wounded child from the rubble.

Mohawk Mark felt something deep and ugly coil in his chest. Disgust. Betrayal. Like finding a roach in his perfect victory feast.

His body moved before he even made the decision. A blur of blue and black cut through the smoke, and before the other Mark could react, Mohawk’s fist was already swinging. It connected hard, knocking him off his feet, sending him crashing through the remains of a convenience store. Glass and rubble rained down around them, the sound of breaking bottles mixing with the distant rumble of collapsing buildings.

Mohawk landed in front of him, rolling his shoulders. "The fuck do you think you're doin’, huh?" His voice was sharp, laced with venom that cut through the smoky air. "Angstrom gave us orders, and you’re out here playin’ hero?"

The other Mark scrambled up, bruised and stunned but still defiant. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he pushed碎玻璃 from his arm. That only pissed Mohawk off more.

"You’re pathetic," he spat, cracking his knuckles so loudly they echoed in the destroyed store. "We’re gods here, and you wanna waste that on them?" He gestured to the cowering civilians, some of them still trying to crawl away. Their whimpers reached his ears like nails on a chalkboard. "They don’t matter. You don’t get that?"

The other Mark barely had time to lift his arms before Mohawk was on him again. A fist slammed into his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone breaking beneath the impact making Mohawk grin. He gasped, but Mohawk didn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to beat the softness out of him, wanted to crush whatever stupid little moral compass was making this version so weak.

Mohawk grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground. His grin widened as he watched the struggle, the pain flickering in his eyes like a dying flame. The other Mark's hands scrabbled at Mohawk's wrist, his legs kicking uselessly in the air.

"You’re a disgrace," he growled, squeezing tighter until the other Mark's face turned purple. "You're nothin’ but a disappointment. But lucky for you—" He slammed his knee into his stomach, making him choke on his own breath. "—I don’t believe in wastin’ potential."

Another punch. Hard. Skull against pavement. Lights out.

Mohawk stood over the unconscious body, chest rising and falling with exhilaration. This one was different. This one had something the others didn’t. Weakness. Softness. A soul. And that made him interesting.

The war would go on without this one. Angstrom wouldn’t care. Hell, with all the bodies dropping, no one would even notice.

Mohawk grabbed the unconscious Variant by the collar and lifted him like dead weight. Then, without a second glance at the burning city, he vanished into the sky.