The warehouse was a wound in the city.
Mark had found it three days after the Guardians meeting, following a trail of whispers and dead ends that Cecil's analysts had somehow missed. It was not difficult. The people who had sold the Skybreaker weapon were careful, but they were not careful enough. They had left fingerprints in the digital world, traces of their passage that Mark's Viltrumite senses could follow where human technology failed.
The warehouse sat on the outskirts of Bucharest, a crumbling relic of a past that Romania had been trying to forget for decades. Its windows were broken, its walls streaked with rust, its roof sagging under the weight of years of neglect. To anyone passing by, it was nothing. An abandoned building in a city full of them. A ghost that had long since stopped haunting anyone.
But Mark could hear the heartbeat inside.
He landed on the roof, his feet touching the corrugated metal with a sound like thunder. He did not try to be quiet. He did not try to be subtle. He had spent three days following a trail of breadcrumbs, and he was tired of hiding.
The man inside had heard him. Mark heard the heartbeat quicken, heard the scuffle of feet on concrete, heard the click of a weapon being readied.
He dropped through the roof.
The metal tore like paper, shredding beneath his fists, and he fell into the darkness of the warehouse with the debris raining down around him. He landed on his feet, the concrete cracking beneath his weight, and straightened up in the center of a space that had once been used to store things that people did not want to be seen.
The man was standing behind a stack of crates, a rifle in his hands, his finger on the trigger. He was young—younger than Mark had expected, barely out of his twenties, with the hollow eyes of someone who had seen things that could not be unseen.
He was not David Anders.
"Who are you?" Mark asked.
The man's hands were shaking. The rifle trembled in his grip, the barrel wavering between Mark's chest and the hole in the roof. "Stay back. I'll shoot."
Mark looked at the rifle. It was a military-grade weapon, the kind that could punch through armor, the kind that could kill a normal man from a hundred meters. It could not hurt him. It could not even bruise him.
"Who are you?" Mark asked again.
The man's face was pale, his eyes wide. He was afraid. Not of the rifle, not of the fall, not of the darkness. He was afraid of Mark.
"I'm nobody," the man said. "I just—I was supposed to watch the place. That's all. I didn't know—I didn't think anyone would come here. Please. Please don't kill me."
Mark looked at him. He saw the fear in the man's eyes, the desperation, the absolute certainty that Mark was going to hurt him. He wondered what the man had been told about him. What lies had been whispered in the shadows about the son of Omni-Man, the Viltrumite who had let four million people die, the monster who was coming for them all.
"I'm not going to kill you," Mark said.
The man blinked. Some of the fear faded, replaced by confusion. "You're not?"
"No." Mark took a step forward. The man flinched, but did not run. "I'm looking for someone. A man named David Anders. He was here. I know he was here. Tell me where he went, and I'll leave."
The man's face twisted. "I don't know anyone named Anders. I just watch the place. That's all. They pay me to watch, to call if anyone comes, that's—"
"Who pays you?"
The man's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Mark saw something flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a weighing of options, a desperate search for the answer that would keep him alive.
"I can't," the man said. "They'll kill me. If I tell you, they'll—"
"They're not here." Mark's voice was soft. "I am."
The man stared at him. The rifle was lowering now, the barrel pointing at the floor, the fight draining out of him. He was just a man, Mark realized. A man who had made bad choices, who had fallen in with people who would use him and discard him, who was standing in the ruins of a warehouse in a foreign country, facing something he had never been trained to face.
"He was here," the man said. His voice was barely a whisper. "A week ago. He came with others. They took something from the basement. I don't know what. I didn't ask."
"Where did they go?"
"I don't know. I swear. They didn't tell me. They never tell me anything. I just watch the place, wait for the next shipment, wait for—"
He stopped. His eyes had gone wide, his face pale, and Mark saw something in his expression that he recognized.
Fear. But not of Mark.
"You need to leave," the man said. "You need to leave now. They're coming. They're always coming. You don't know what they are. You don't know what they can do."
Mark heard it then. The sound of engines, growing louder, coming closer. Multiple engines, multiple vehicles, moving with the precision of people who knew exactly where they were going.
"Who's coming?" Mark asked.
The man dropped the rifle. It clattered on the concrete, the sound echoing off the walls. He was backing away now, his hands raised, his face a mask of terror.
"You don't understand," he said. "You don't know what they've become. What he made them into. You need to go. You need to run. Before they—"
The wall exploded.
Mark moved without thinking. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, throwing himself between the blast and the man, his arms coming up to shield them both. The debris struck him like a wave—concrete and steel and something else, something that burned when it touched his skin.
He landed on his feet, his arms still raised, his body still between the man and whatever had just tried to kill them. The warehouse was collapsing around them, the walls crumbling, the roof sagging, the whole structure coming down in a cascade of dust and rubble.
And through the dust, Mark saw them.
Four figures stood in the gap where the wall had been. They were tall, broad, their bodies encased in armor that gleamed dully in the half-light. Their faces were hidden behind helmets that covered everything except their eyes—and their eyes were not human. They glowed with a pale blue light, cold and mechanical, the eyes of something that had been built, not born.
Reanimen.
But not the Reanimen Mark had fought before. These were different. Larger. Faster. The armor was thicker, the joints reinforced, the whole construction built to withstand forces that would tear a normal Reanimen apart.
They had been built to fight Viltrumites.
"Run," Mark said.
The man did not need to be told twice. He was already moving, scrambling toward the back of the warehouse, toward a door that Mark had not noticed before. The Reanimen did not follow him. They were not here for him.
They were here for Mark.
"You're not David Anders," Mark said.
The Reanimen did not respond. They did not need to. They were weapons, not people. They had been sent to do a job, and they would do it, and they would not stop until they had completed their mission or been destroyed.
Mark looked at them. He thought about Cecil, about the files he had found, about the contingency plans that had been drawn up in the wake of his father's betrayal. He thought about the weapons that had been designed to kill Viltrumites, the traps that had been laid, the failsafes that had been built into every system that was supposed to protect the world from threats like him.
He thought about the voice in his head, whispering in the darkness.
They were always going to come for you. They were just waiting for a reason.
The first Reanimen moved.
It was fast. Faster than any Reanimen Mark had fought before. Its fist slammed into his chest with the force of a wrecking ball, and Mark felt the impact shudder through his bones. He staggered back, his feet digging trenches in the concrete, his arms coming up to block the next blow.
The second Reanimen hit him from the side. Its shoulder caught him in the ribs, driving him across the warehouse, through a stack of crates, into the far wall. The concrete shattered, and Mark felt the breath leave his lungs, felt the pain flare through his body, felt the anger rising in his chest.
He pushed off the wall. His fist connected with the second Reanimen's helmet, and the metal crumpled, the faceplate caving in, the blue light flickering and dying. The Reanimen staggered, its systems failing, its body going limp.
But the third was already there. Its arms wrapped around Mark's waist, lifting him off the ground, slamming him down with enough force to crater the floor. Mark's head snapped back, his vision blurring, and he felt something warm and wet on his lip.
Blood. His blood.
He had not bled since Chicago.
The fourth Reanimen stood over him, its arm raised, its fist clenched. Mark saw the light glinting off the metal, saw the wires that ran beneath the synthetic skin, saw the cold blue glow of the eyes that were not eyes.
He caught the fist.
The impact sent shockwaves through the warehouse, cracking the walls, shattering what remained of the windows. Mark held the fist in his hand, feeling the metal grind against his palm, feeling the mechanisms inside straining to break free.
He squeezed.
The Reanimen's hand crumpled. The metal folded like paper, the wires snapping, the blue light in its eyes flickering and dying. Mark pushed himself to his feet, the Reanimen still struggling against him, its arm twisted, its body thrashing.
He threw it across the warehouse. It crashed through the far wall, disappearing into the darkness beyond, the sound of its impact echoing off the buildings outside.
The first Reanimen was coming at him again. Its faceplate was cracked, its body damaged, but it was still moving, still fighting, still trying to complete its mission. Mark met it head-on. His fist drove through its chest, through the armor, through the mechanisms that had once been a person, and he felt the thing go still.
He pulled his hand free. The Reanimen collapsed at his feet, its body smoking, its blue eyes dark.
The third was rising. The one he had slammed into the floor was pushing itself up, its armor dented, its limbs moving with the jerky precision of damaged machinery. Mark walked toward it, his footsteps heavy on the cracked concrete, his fists still clenched.
He stopped in front of it. The Reanimen looked up at him, its blue eyes flickering, its body twitching as it tried to rise.
"Who sent you?" Mark asked.
The Reanimen did not answer. It could not answer. It was a weapon, not a person. It had been built to kill, and it had failed, and now it was nothing.
Mark raised his fist. He could end it. One blow, and the thing would be scrap metal, its systems dead, its mission failed. It would be easy. It would be right.
He lowered his fist.
"Go back to whoever sent you," he said. "Tell them I'm coming."
The Reanimen stared at him. Its blue eyes flickered once, twice, and then it went still. Its systems were shutting down, its power cells depleted, its body collapsing into a heap of dead metal and synthetic flesh.
Mark stood in the ruins of the warehouse, surrounded by the bodies of the things that had been sent to kill him, and listened to the silence.
The man was gone. The Reanimen were dead. And David Anders was still out there, somewhere, waiting.
Mark looked at his hands. They were covered in blood—his blood, from the cut on his lip, and something else, something that was not blood, something that had leaked from the Reanimen when he had driven his fist through its chest. He looked at the fluid, black and thick, dripping from his fingers, and felt nothing.
He heard a sound behind him. Soft footsteps, careful, deliberate. He turned.
A figure stood in the gap where the wall had been. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden in the shadows of the ruined warehouse. But Mark knew him. He had known him since before he could walk. Had loved him. Had hated him. Had fought him. Had watched him leave.
"Hello, Mark."
Nolan Grayson stepped into the light.
He looked the same as he had the last time Mark had seen him. The same strong features, the same steady eyes, the same easy confidence that had once made Mark believe that his father was the greatest hero who had ever lived. He was wearing civilian clothes—a dark jacket, jeans, boots—and there was nothing about him that suggested he had just flown across the galaxy to find his son.
But Mark knew. He could feel the power radiating from his father, the same power that lived in his own blood, the same power that had nearly destroyed this world.
"Dad," Mark said.
The word tasted strange in his mouth. He had not spoken it in years. Had not wanted to speak it. Had told himself that the man who had raised him, who had taught him to fly, who had held him when he cried, was dead. Had been replaced by something else. Something that had killed thousands of people without a second thought.
But looking at Nolan now, Mark saw the man who had read him bedtime stories. Who had taught him to throw a baseball. Who had looked at him with pride when he had taken his first flight.
He saw his father.
"You're hurt," Nolan said. His voice was soft, concerned, the voice of a parent who had just seen their child fall. "Are you okay?"
Mark looked at his hands. The blood was drying now, the cut on his lip already healed, the wounds of the fight already fading. He was a Viltrumite. He healed. He moved on. He forgot.
He would never forget.
"I'm fine," Mark said.
Nolan stepped closer. His eyes moved across the warehouse, taking in the bodies of the Reanimen, the collapsed walls, the cratered floor. He saw everything, Mark knew. He missed nothing.
"They're getting better," Nolan said. "The Reanimen. The ones I fought were crude. These were... refined. Someone has been working on them."
"Cecil," Mark said. "He has a whole facility dedicated to studying Viltrumite weaknesses. He's been preparing for someone like you to come back. For someone like me to..."
He stopped. He did not want to finish the sentence.
Nolan looked at him. His face was unreadable, but Mark saw something in his eyes that he had never seen before.
He saw regret.
"I heard what happened," Nolan said. "In Chicago. In New York." He paused. "I came as soon as I could."
Mark stared at him. "You came back to Earth because I made a choice."
"I came back because my son is hurting."
The words hit Mark like a blow. He had been expecting many things from his father. Anger. Disappointment. A lecture about the weakness of human emotion, the foolishness of caring too much, the inevitability of loss.
He had not expected kindness.
"You left," Mark said. His voice was rough. "You left, and you didn't come back. You didn't call. You didn't write. You didn't do anything. You just... left."
Nolan's face was still. "I know."
"Do you know what it was like? After you left? Do you know what Mom went through? What I went through? The world looked at me and saw you. They saw your face, your power, your blood. And they waited. They waited for me to become you."
Nolan was silent.
"I didn't become you," Mark said. "I fought. I trained. I bled. I almost died so many times. And I never—" His voice broke. "I never became you."
Nolan stepped forward. He was close now, close enough to touch, close enough to see the lines on his face that had not been there before, the weariness in his eyes that spoke of a lifetime of violence and regret.
"I know," Nolan said. "I watched. From a distance. I watched you become everything I should have been. Everything I failed to be." He paused. "I am proud of you, Mark. I have always been proud of you."
Mark felt tears forming in his eyes. He blinked them back. He would not cry. He would not show weakness. He would not give his father the satisfaction of seeing him break.
"You left," Mark said again. "You left, and you never came back. And now you're here, and you want me to—what? Forgive you? Tell you that everything is okay? That I understand why you did what you did?"
"No." Nolan's voice was soft. "I don't want you to forgive me. I don't deserve forgiveness. I came because I heard what happened, and I knew you would be alone. I knew you would be hurting. And I knew—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I knew that I could not let you face this alone."
Mark looked at his father. He saw the man who had raised him, who had taught him to be strong, who had shown him what it meant to be a hero. And he saw the man who had killed the Guardians, who had tried to conquer Earth, who had broken his mother's heart.
He saw both. And he did not know which one was real.
"Why are you really here?" Mark asked.
Nolan was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different. Softer. More human.
"I heard what you did," Nolan said. "You made a choice. An impossible choice. And you chose your mother. You chose family. You chose love." He looked at Mark, and his eyes were wet. "That is something I never understood. Not until it was too late."
Mark stared at him. "You're proud of me. For letting four million people die."
"I am proud of you for choosing your mother." Nolan's voice was steady. "The world will never understand. They will call you a monster, a murderer, a traitor. They will look at you and see only the people you could not save. They will never see the choice you made. The weight you carry. The burden you will bear for the rest of your life."
He stepped closer. His hand came up, rested on Mark's shoulder. His grip was warm, familiar, the grip of a father who had held his son a thousand times.
"But I see it," Nolan said. "I see the weight. I see the burden. I see the choice you made, and I know—I know—that you made it for love. And that is something the Viltrumite Empire never understood. Something I never understood. Not until I met your mother. Not until I had you."
Mark looked at his father's hand on his shoulder. He thought about all the years he had spent wishing for this moment. All the nights he had dreamed of his father coming back, of explaining, of apologizing, of making everything right.
But this was not the dream. This was real. And the dream had never included the weight of four million dead.
"You left," Mark said. His voice was quiet now. Empty. "You left, and you never looked back. You never asked what it did to us. To Mom. To me. You just... left."
Nolan's hand tightened on his shoulder. "I know."
"You don't get to come back now. You don't get to be here, in this moment, and pretend that you understand what I'm going through. You don't get to—"
"I know." Nolan's voice was rough. "I know I don't deserve to be here. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know that I have done things that can never be undone. But I am your father, Mark. And you are my son. And I will not let you face this alone."
Mark pulled away. Nolan's hand fell to his side, and there was distance between them again. The distance that had been there since the day his father had left.
"I don't need you," Mark said. "I don't need anyone. I made a choice. I saved my mother. I let four million people die. And I would do it again. I would let the whole world burn if it meant keeping her safe."
He looked at his father, and for a moment, he saw something flicker in Nolan's eyes. Something that looked almost like fear.
"You sound like me," Nolan said.
The words were a blade.
Mark stared at his father. He thought about the choice he had made. The voice in his head. The words he had just spoken. I would let the whole world burn if it meant keeping her safe.
He heard them. He heard the echo of his father in them. The echo of everything he had sworn he would never become.
"I'm not you," Mark said. But his voice was not steady. It shook. It cracked. It betrayed the doubt that was growing in his chest.
"No," Nolan said. "You're not. You chose your mother because you love her. I chose the Empire because I was afraid. There is a difference." He paused. "But the road you are walking, Mark... I have walked it. I know where it leads. And I do not want to see you follow me there."
Mark looked at his father. He saw the lines on his face, the weariness in his eyes, the weight of a lifetime of violence and regret. He saw a man who had done terrible things, who had tried to become something he was not, who had lost everything because he had not understood what love was until it was too late.
"What do you want?" Mark asked. "Why are you really here?"
Nolan was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost gentle.
"I want to help you," Nolan said. "I want to help you find the man who did this. The man who killed four million people. The man who used your mother as a weapon." He paused. "And I want to help you understand that the path you are walking does not have to end the way mine did."
Mark stared at him. "You want to help me find Anders."
"I want to help you find yourself." Nolan stepped closer again. "You are standing at a crossroads, Mark. One path leads to the man you have always wanted to be. The hero. The protector. The man who saves people because it is the right thing to do. The other path..." He paused. "The other path leads to the man you are afraid of becoming. The man who saves people because he is strong enough to do whatever he wants. The man who decides who lives and who dies. The man who chooses."
Mark heard the voice in his head. The voice that had been whispering since Chicago.
He's right. You are standing at a crossroads. And you know which path you have already chosen.
"I'm not going to become you," Mark said.
"No," Nolan said. "You're not. You are going to become something different. Something that has never existed before. A Viltrumite who chooses love over power. A hero who has failed and is trying to find his way back." He placed his hand on Mark's shoulder again. "But you cannot do it alone. No one can."
Mark looked at his father's hand. He thought about the promise he had made to Eve. The promise he had broken before he had even spoken it. He thought about Cecil, about the Guardians, about the world that was watching him, waiting for him to fall.
He thought about the man who had killed four million people. The man who was out there, somewhere, planning his next attack. The man who had used Mark's mother as a weapon.
"I'm going to find him," Mark said. "Anders. I'm going to find him, and I'm going to stop him."
Nolan nodded slowly. "I know."
"And you want to help me."
"I want to help you." Nolan's eyes were steady. "But I want you to understand something first. The man you are hunting is not like the villains you have faced before. He is not a monster. He is not a conqueror. He is a man who has been broken by the system he served. A man who has lost everything. A man who believes—truly believes—that he is doing the right thing."
Mark stared at him. "He killed four million people."
"Yes." Nolan's voice was quiet. "He did. And he will kill more if you let him. But if you go to him with rage in your heart, if you go to him looking for revenge, you will become exactly what he believes you are. A monster. A killer. A Viltrumite."
Mark's hands clenched. "What do you want me to do? Let him go? Let him keep killing? Let him—"
"I want you to think." Nolan's voice was sharp. "I want you to think about what you are becoming. I want you to think about the choices you are making. And I want you to understand that the moment you kill that man, you will have crossed a line that you cannot uncross."
Mark looked at his father. He saw the man who had killed the Guardians. Who had killed thousands. Who had tried to conquer the world. He saw a man who had crossed lines that could never be uncrossed.
"You crossed that line," Mark said. "And you came back."
Nolan was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
"I am trying," Nolan said. "Every day, I am trying. But the line I crossed, Mark... it does not go away. It does not fade. It is a part of me now. And no matter how many years pass, no matter how many people I save, no matter how hard I try to be better... it will always be there. The things I did. The people I killed. The choices I made."
He looked at Mark, and his eyes were wet.
"I do not want that for you," Nolan said. "I do not want you to carry that weight. I have carried it for years, and it does not get lighter. It does not get easier. It just... becomes a part of you. And one day, you look in the mirror, and you do not recognize the face looking back."
Mark felt something crack inside him. Something he had been holding together since the moment the light faded in New York.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked. His voice was broken. "What am I supposed to do when I find him? Let him go? Let Cecil lock him away? Let him live, knowing that he killed four million people and got away with it?"
Nolan looked at him for a long moment. Then he did something Mark had not expected.
He smiled.
"You are your mother's son," Nolan said. "You have her heart. Her compassion. Her stubborn refusal to let the world make you hard." He placed his hand on Mark's shoulder. "That is what will save you, Mark. Not your strength. Not your speed. Not your Viltrumite blood. Your heart. Your mother's heart."
Mark looked at his father. He thought about his mother, alone in the apartment, waiting for him to come home. He thought about Eve, waiting in the darkness, believing in him. He thought about the voice in his head, whispering in the silence, telling him things he wanted to hear.
He thought about the choice he had made in Chicago. The choice he would make again.
"I'm going to find him," Mark said. "And when I find him, I'm going to bring him in. Alive."
Nolan's smile did not waver. "Good."
"But if he hurts anyone else—if he hurts my mother, if he hurts Eve, if he hurts anyone I love—" Mark's voice hardened. "I will end him. And I won't lose a minute of sleep over it."
Nolan looked at him. His eyes were steady, and Mark saw something in them that he had never seen before.
He saw hope.
"That is the choice," Nolan said. "That is the choice that separates you from me. You are willing to kill to protect the people you love. I was willing to kill anyone, for any reason, because I believed that strength was the only thing that mattered." He squeezed Mark's shoulder. "You are stronger than I ever was, Mark. Not because of your power. Because of your heart."
Mark stood in the ruins of the warehouse, surrounded by the bodies of the things that had been sent to kill him, and looked at his father. The man who had left him. The man who had come back. The man who was trying, in his own way, to make things right.
"I don't forgive you," Mark said. "I don't know if I ever will."
Nolan nodded slowly. "I know."
"But I'm glad you're here."
Nolan's face shifted. The mask of the warrior fell away, and Mark saw the man beneath. The man who had raised him. Who had taught him to fly. Who had loved him, in his own broken way.
"I'm glad I'm here too," Nolan said.
They stood together in the darkness, father and son, surrounded by the ruins of a world that had tried to break them both. The dust was settling, the night was quiet, and for a moment, Mark felt something he had not felt in a very long time.
He felt safe.
"We should go," Nolan said. "There will be more of them. The Reanimen. Whoever sent them knows you are here. They will send more."
Mark nodded slowly. He looked at the bodies around him—the twisted metal, the dead machinery, the things that had once been people. He thought about the man who had built them. The man who had taken the dead and turned them into weapons. The man who had sent them to kill him.
"We need to find Anders," Mark said. "Before Cecil does."
Nolan raised an eyebrow. "You don't trust Cecil to handle it."
Mark thought about the files he had found. The contingency plans. The weapons designed to kill Viltrumites. The Reanimen that had been sent to kill him, even as Cecil was telling him to trust the system.
"Cecil is afraid of me," Mark said. "He's always been afraid of me. He's just waiting for a reason to put me down."
Nolan's face was unreadable. "And you think he will find one."
"I think he already has." Mark looked at his father. "I think he's been waiting since the day you left. Watching. Measuring. Waiting for me to become you."
Nolan was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft.
"He will not stop," Nolan said. "Men like Cecil never stop. They see threats everywhere. They build weapons to fight the things they fear. And when they run out of enemies, they create new ones."
Mark nodded slowly. He had known this, in some way, since the moment he had seen the contingency plans. Since the moment he had realized that Cecil had been preparing for him to fall since the beginning.
"I need to find Anders first," Mark said. "Before Cecil does. Before he has a chance to cover up what he did. Before he has a chance to turn this into something else."
Nolan looked at him. His eyes were steady, and Mark saw something in them that he had not expected.
He saw approval.
"Then we find him," Nolan said. "Together."
Mark looked at his father. He thought about the path he was walking. The path that led to a man who had killed four million people. The path that led to a choice he did not want to make.
He thought about the voice in his head. The voice that was whispering, even now, telling him what he needed to do.
You are stronger than him. Faster. Better. You could find him. You could end him. You could make sure he never hurts anyone again.
He pushed the voice away. Forced it down. Buried it beneath the words his father had spoken.
You are your mother's son.
"Together," Mark said.
He stepped toward his father, and for the first time in years, he let himself be held. Nolan's arms wrapped around him, strong and warm, and Mark felt the tears that he had been holding back finally fall.
He cried for the four million dead. He cried for the choice he had made. He cried for the man he was afraid of becoming. And he cried for his father, who had come back, who was trying, who was standing beside him in the darkness.
When he pulled away, his face was wet, but his eyes were clear.
"We need to go," he said.
Nolan nodded. He looked at the hole in the roof, at the stars visible beyond, at the sky that had once been his prison and was now his freedom.
"Where?" Nolan asked.
Mark thought about the trail he had been following. The whispers in the darkness. The man who had killed four million people. The man who was waiting for him, somewhere in the world.
"East," Mark said. "There's a facility in the mountains. Anders was there. He left something behind. Something he didn't want anyone to find."
Nolan's eyes narrowed. "What kind of something?"
Mark looked at his hands. The blood was gone now, the wounds healed, the evidence of the fight erased. But he remembered the Reanimen. The way they had moved. The way they had fought. The way they had been built to kill something that could not be killed.
"I don't know," Mark said. "But I'm going to find out."
Nolan looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"Then we go east," Nolan said.
He stepped toward the hole in the roof, his feet lifting off the ground, his body rising into the air. Mark followed, the wind rushing past him, the stars growing brighter as he left the darkness of the warehouse behind.
They flew together, father and son, into the night. Behind them, the warehouse crumbled into dust, the bodies of the Reanimen buried in the rubble, the secrets they had been sent to protect lost to the darkness.
Ahead of them, the world waited. David Anders waited. The choice that Mark did not want to make waited.
And the voice in his head whispered, soft and patient, telling him what he needed to do.
You are your mother's son. But you are also your father's. And one day, you will have to choose which one you want to be.
Mark flew into the darkness, and his father flew beside him, and the voice was silent.
For now.