"You know what, you dumb black screen," Mark said, dropping onto a park bench and staring up at the night sky, "in modern society, survival without money is genuinely hard."
[That is why I suggested robbing. It is better to take something from others than to starve yourself.]
Mark didn’t look at it.
"This is America," he said, voice flat but firm. "Almost everyone has a gun. I walk up to someone, flash my eyes, tell them to hand over their wallet—and the moment they panic, they pull the trigger."
He paused, letting that play out in his head.
"I don’t have super speed. I don’t have durability. One bad call and I’m dead before I even understand what went wrong."
The panel remained silent.
Mark leaned back against the bench, eyes still fixed on the sky, his breathing slower now but his thoughts sharper.
"Survival isn’t just about getting power," he continued quietly. "It’s about not putting myself in situations where that power isn’t enough."
[But if your situation continues like this, you will die before we even pass the first ten Chapters.]
Mark let out a quiet breath, his gaze still fixed on the sky.
"Yeah," he said after a moment, his voice lower now, less sharp but heavier. "Of course you’d say that. You only care about the story moving forward, about keeping things entertaining. You don’t care about what the character actually feels."
He shifted slightly on the bench, elbows resting on his knees again, hands loosely clasped.
For a second, he didn’t say anything.
Then—
"...I used to write like that," he admitted, almost to himself. "Throw the character into bad situations, pile things on them, call it ’growth’ and move on to the next scene."
He gave a faint, humorless exhale.
"Never really stopped to think what that would feel like from the inside."
Mark looked down at the ground, his expression tightening slightly.
"...Now I get it."
An answer came from his own body before his thoughts could settle—his stomach tightened, sharp and empty.
Money.
He needed to find a way to earn it, and quickly. Waiting around wasn’t going to work, and neither was hoping things would somehow fall into place. If it came down to it, taking from thieves wouldn’t sit wrong with him. At least then, his conscience wouldn’t have anything to argue about.
The thought had barely settled—
"Oi. You. Homeless. Give your fucking money."
The voice came from behind.
Mark turned, his expression already tightening as he faced them.
Two men stood a few steps away, both holding knives. Not trained, not steady—just enough confidence to threaten someone they assumed was weaker.
Mark pushed himself up from the bench, brushing his hands lightly against his jeans as he looked at them properly.
"...You do realize I’m not any different from a beggar right now," he said, his tone flat but controlled. "You’re trying to rob someone sitting alone on a park bench. Does that make sense to you?"
The two men exchanged a glance.
It was brief, but it was there—the flicker of two people silently asking each other the same question.
He had a point. The man in front of them had no bag, no watch, nothing visible worth the effort. Even his clothes were unremarkable. What exactly had they planned to walk away with here.
"We could take his shoes," one of them muttered to the other, low, like Mark couldn’t hear him standing four feet away.
"Those are mid at best," Mark said flatly.
Another glance between them.
The knives didn’t lower, but the confidence behind them had quietly left the building.
"Before that, you wouldn’t mind me doing a prayer, would you?" Mark asked, clasping his hands together before either of them could answer.
The two men blinked.
"Oh God," Mark began, head bowing slightly, eyes shut—then opening just a crack to check their positions, "thank you for this generous delivery. I was literally just sitting here thinking about how I needed money, and you sent these two directly to me. I appreciate the efficiency. Truly. Amen."
He looked back up.
The two men stared at him.
"...What?" said the first one.
"Nothing," Mark said, and opened his eyes fully—letting the faint red glow bleed into his vision just enough to be visible. "Just grateful."
The two men saw the glow.
For a moment neither of them moved, brains catching up to eyes, and then it hit them both at the same time—supe—and they turned to run.
Too late.
Two concentrated optic blasts hit the ground directly in front of their feet, concrete splintering and cracking from the sheer force as the beams tore through it like it was nothing.
They stumbled over each other trying to reverse direction, one of them dropping his knife without noticing.
"WHAT THE FUCK—"
"HE’S A SUPE—"
"WHY IS HE HOMELESS IF HE’S A SUPE—"
"I DON’T KNOW MAN JUST RUN—"
Mark walked toward them at a completely normal pace.
"Wallets," he said simply.
They stared at him, breathing hard, neither moving.
Mark let the glow in his eyes brighten just slightly, the red light sharpening at the edges.
Both wallets hit the ground in under a second.
"So what do you guys say about this incident to the public?" Mark asked, looking between them, eyes still glowing.
"We won’t say anything about you, we swear, just let us go—"
"No," Mark said, cutting him off. "I want you to say everything."
The two men froze.
Mark turned slightly and let his optic blasts loose across the park—controlled, deliberate, sweeping in a wide arc. Benches cracked and flipped. Trees splintered at the trunk.
Chunks of concrete path exploded upward and scattered across the grass. The entire area lit up in sharp red bursts, each impact loud and immediate, the destruction spreading faster than either of them could fully process.
Both men squeezed their eyes shut, hands flying up instinctively.
When the blasts stopped, the park looked like something had detonated in the middle of it.
Mark turned back to them, completely calm.
"Tell the police," he said, "that a crazy person is in town. Someone who’s decided to pick up The Seven."
He let that land for a second, watching their faces.
"Make sure they get the details right."