Chapter Text
There had been a moment—just one—when William thought Mark would win.
It was stupid. Laughable, in hindsight. He was always the one telling Mark to be careful, to think things through, to not fly straight into an interdimensional rift without a backup plan.
But Mark had smiled at him—bloodied, wild-eyed, half-laughing through a split lip—and said:
“I’ll come back. I always come back.”
But…he didn’t.
The rift didn’t just open. It shattered. It ruptured reality like glass under a hammer and spat out eighteen of him. Then there were eight Marks that remained. Each one wrong and twisted in ways that made William’s stomach lurch and his throat close. He remembered the way they turned to him, heads tilting in eerie unison, eyes sharp and hungry, studying him—not with recognition, but evaluation.
Like he was a thing. Like they were trying to decide if he was worth keeping.
Then they tore the sky apart.
William lost track of time after the nukes fell.
Cities crumbled like sandcastles in a tide of fire—fast, helpless, gone before you could even blink. Governments collapsed within days. The Resistance, which were whatever heroes brave enough to still fight bsck, held out for maybe a month. Then the power grids failed. Satellites went silent. The world went dark.
He remembered when the war first started, for three days the sun didn’t rise.
Smoke thickened the sky until it was suffocating, choking out the light, leaving the horizon a smear of ash and orange embers. The air reeked of burning flesh and twisted metal.
He went thirteen days without seeing another living soul—unless you counted the bloodied skulls and scorched skeletons littering the streets, curled up like they’d tried to shield themselves from whatever hit them. He learned quickly. Don’t stay in one place. Don’t speak your name out loud. Don’t look up when you hear the sonic booms—run, duck, hide.
And most important of all: don’t think about Mark.
Because sometimes… hope was the cruelest trick.
Sometimes, one of them flew overhead. Broad shoulders, familiar silhouette, cape—or was it the tattered remains of an Omni-Man uniform? For a split second, his chest would seize with hope. Hope it would be his best friend, his Mark. Just long enough for it to be crushed.
He’d seen the broadcasts. Public threats from multiple Marks, each one grinning behind bloodstained face. Some placed bets on who would find “the original” Mark first, laughing while cities burned behind them. It was twisted. Seeing that face—Mark’s face—plastered across the world like a death omen made William want to throw up.
Now, two months later, William finds himself alone.
William’s boots crunched glass as he stepped over the collapsed roof of what used to be a school. The walls were gone, the paint scorched black. The air stank of ozone and burned soil—he was standing in the crater where one of the Marks, the one who called himself Emperor, had vaporized a rebel camp just last week.
But this town was supposed to be abandoned. Bombed out, picked clean, nothing left worth looting. Just the way he liked it—quiet, forgotten. The kind of place where even the monsters didn’t bother looking anymore. He didn’t expect to find food, or medicine, or working tech. But sometimes, in the corners the looters missed—beneath floorboards, inside lockers, behind collapsed walls—there’d be something. A can of beans, or a pack of lighters, batteries--anything he could scavenge he would consider it a win.
A slim chance, but it was all he had left.
Besides, silence was its own kind of safety. Towns like this didn’t scream, they didn’t cry, they didn’t beg for help over open radio channels. Everyone here was dead, and dead things, in theory, didn’t attract attention so he should be safe.
William moved in silence, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt lower until its shadow hid most of his face. His footsteps were careful, muffled against the cracked tile as he wove through the gutted remains of the building. Shattered school chairs lay on their sides like broken limbs, metal legs twisted, desks splintered and warped. Faded worksheets and torn notebooks littered the floor, their pages curling with damp and dust. The sight made his chest ache—ghosts of a time when laughter and chatter had filled these halls instead of silence.
He forced himself to look away, jaw tightening. If he lingered on those memories too long, the weight in his chest would drag him straight into another spiral, and he couldn’t afford that. Not now. Near a crumbling stairwell, he spotted a vending machine—its glass cracked, the frame half-swallowed by fallen plaster and debris. Dust clung to the metal, but it was still upright. Hope flared, small but sharp.
He braced his shoulder against the side, shoving with all his strength. “Come on… just something. Anything,” he muttered under his breath, as if the machine might hear him.
Thunk.
A soda can rolled free.
William almost laughed—dry and humorless. Of course, Diet Coke.
Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He crouched to pick it up, brushing dust off the aluminum, and tried to muster some excitement for the carbonation. Who knew when he’d find another soda again?
He popped the tab with a quiet hiss and took a sip, the metallic tang sharp on his tongue. The carbonation was still intact—barely. It fizzed up his nose and bit at the back of his throat. It wasn’t refreshing, it wasn’t even cold. But it was something. Water would've been smarter. But smart hadn’t gotten him very far these days.
He sat down on a chunk of broken concrete, letting the can rest between his hands. Just for a second. Just to feel… normal.
“You’re addicted to soda, you know that?”
William smiled faintly at the memory. Rick used to tease him about it. He’d roll his eyes and lecture him about sugar intake and empty calories and then steal sips when he thought William wasn’t looking. The asshole never even liked soda—he just liked sharing it.
That was before everything went to hell.
Before the sky ripped open like torn flesh, and alternate versions of Mark came pouring through—each one more terrifying than the last. It was as if the universe itself had split wide, spilling out endless copies of the same unstoppable monster.
The world never stood a chance against their war.
Whatever superheroes remained were hunted down, ripped apart, crushed under boot or broken midair. Resistance was a slow-motion execution—dragged out just long enough to send a message. And yet, somehow, miraculously, humanity managed to take most of them down. Not without cost. Not without entire cities erased from maps. But somehow, eighteen became eight. Now those last remaining eight Marks stalk the world like predators with no natural enemies.
William’s grip tightened around the can.
His parents stopped answering their phones a week after the invasion began. No calls. No texts. Just silence. No bodies, either—which somehow made it worse. The not-knowing gnawed at him every day, were they hiding? Captured? Or…were they already dead? He pictured them huddled in a basement somewhere, waiting for help that would never come. Or maybe they’d been vaporized in a blast zone, nothing left but dust in the wind. He just didn’t know. And that uncertainty was a wound that never closed.
He forced himself not to think about it. Because if he let his mind spiral down every possible ending, he’d lose what was left of his sanity. The soda only made the nausea in his stomach worse.
Now that something was in his stomach, his body remembered how long it had been since it had food. Real food and not just stale protein bars or dry instant oats mixed with rainwater. His limbs ached with more than fatigue—they trembled and shook as he walked. His stomach growled so loud it echoed through he was worried a Mark would find him by the sound alone.
William quickly made his way out of what was left of the school and climbed over the broken fence. He scanned the horizon. The town blurred into more rubble and twisted steel. Houses, maybe—if any of them were still standing. He followed the cracked sidewalk past the school and down a collapsed hill, weaving between shattered fences and scorched cars.
And then—he saw it.
A neighborhood. Or, at least, what was left of one.
Most of the houses were nothing but burned-out shells—roofs caved in, walls scorched black, the jagged remains of windows yawning open. Signs of looting were everywhere: doors hanging off hinges, furniture gutted, debris scattered like bones.
All except one.
At the far end of the cul-de-sac, perched slightly uphill, stood a house that shouldn’t have survived. From a distance, it rose tall—three stories, maybe four—sprawling and grand like something out of a luxury listing. The kind of place that once had marble countertops, central air, and a cleaning crew. It bore its scars: deep cracks veined the foundation, a window on the top floor was blown out, and rubble littered the roof and porch. But the structure was still there, solid, defiant. Even battered and imperfect, it stood apart from the ruin around it—like a lone survivor in a graveyard.
William stopped in the middle of the road, frowning, his danger senses kicking in on overdrive.
The house looked a little too intact.
Then his stomach growled again, his hunger gnawed through his fear. He crept up the driveway, stepping over broken tile and dead vines. The front door hung off its hinges, the porch was scorched and made loud noises as he walked over it. When he finally reached the large front doors, he forgot to notice the door was unlocked.
He pushed the door open and froze. The interior was absolutely pristine!
Lights flickered softly from bronze sconces lining the hallway walls, their glow casting a warm, golden hue over everything. A vase of fresh lilies sat untouched on a carved mahogany credenza—real flowers, not plastic. The floors were swept clean, polished even, the dark hardwood gleaming beneath his boots.
The furniture looked new, solid, and heavy. A leather armchair sat beside a stone fireplace, buttery-soft and barely worn. There was a velvet throw draped over the back, folded with quiet care. Ornate crown molding trimmed the ceiling above him. Large, framed paintings made of oil, not prints—lined the walls: landscapes, portraits, a still life of wine and fruit that made his stomach twist with hunger.
The air was… warm, gently heated, and scented faintly with something herbal eucalyptus, maybe. It was the first time he’d felt the warmth of indoors or smelled something other than smoke and blood in weeks.
And as he stood there filthy, hollow-eyed, skin pale and sunken beneath the grime. William looked like something dug up from the ruins and dropped into a palace. Like a wound in a room that was too clean. He stepped further inside, ignoring the alarm bells ringing somewhere deep in the back of his mind. This was wrong. Everything was too clean, too perfect.
But his hunger was louder.
He crept past the entryway, deeper into the house. Through a wide archway, the space opened up into a sunken living room that flowed into an equally massive kitchen. Black marble countertops gleamed beneath pendant lights. Stainless steel appliances, sleek and untouched. There was even a digital fridge humming gently in the corner.
His breath caught when he spotted a basket on the counter.
“Is that…?” William’s eyes widen as his mouth watered
There, waiting on the counter like a gift from God, was a basket of fresh bread—still warm beneath a folded cloth napkin. The smell alone made his knees buckle slightly.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “That’s fresh. That’s actually real?!”
Beside it sat a bowl of glossy red apples and a glass jar of honey that caught the light like amber.
William didn’t hesitate. He tore into the bread like an animal, hands shaking, stuffing too-large bites into his mouth before he could think twice. Crumbs scattered across the counter. His jaw ached from how fast he chewed, but he didn’t stop—he couldn’t stop even if he wanted too.
“Fuck,” he mumbled between bites, voice breaking. “Oh my God...”
It was the first real food he’d had in days. Maybe weeks. He didn’t even register the tears stinging his eyes until the crust scraped his throat going down.
When he finally slowed, the heel of the bread clutched in both hands, he choked out a short, desperate laugh. “Tastes like a damn bakery. What the hell is this place…” His eyes darted around the kitchen as he continued to chew.
Only once the bread was gone—completely devoured, not even a crumb left behind—did the haze of hunger begin to clear.
And with it came clarity.
His expression twisted. “Oh shit…”
He was still inside someone’s house and still very, very not safe.
That was when something glinted at the edge of his vision. He turned, breath slowing.
A narrow hallway extended off the kitchen, ending in a wide double door left slightly ajar. The room beyond was darker than the rest of the house, dimly lit with a strange hush to it. The air shifted the moment he moved toward it.
William moved toward the door slowly, bare fingertips brushing against the wall for balance. “Don’t be stupid, don’t be stupid,” he muttered to himself, even though his body continued its actions. “Just grab apples, get out, don’t—ugh.” He pushed the door open and immediately froze.
At the far end of the room stood a glass display case. Inside it, laid out with reverence, was a scorched red cape—torn at the hem, stained with what was unmistakably blood. Even burned, even mangled, no one could mistake the symbol faintly visible on the chest.
Omni-Mark.
His chest tightened. ‘Why the hell is that here?!’
Beside it sat a cracked visor mask, one of the sleeker models, not Mark’s original. The metal was warped, the lens was fractured, shattered outward like something had punched through it.
He knew that wasn’t Omni-Mark’s…but someone’s else. Another Mark, he thought in horror.
His stomach turned. The warmth from the bread curdled instantly into lead. Slowly, his eyes tracked around the room. He barely registered his feet moving on their own as he continued to take a step, then another into the room in horrific fascination.
More display cases. Lined up like some of twisted museum exhibits. Armor pieces, weapons, bood-streaked gloves, bent gauntlets, a splintered baseball bat, a scorched photo. Each encased and carefully arranged and perfectly preserved. To William’s horror, he recognized it as a war trophy room. Eyes widening in fear, William felt the cold sweat start to encase on his skin, “Oh God,” he whispered. “I’m in their house…” He took a single step back from the cracked mask. Before he could even process the danger he was truly in, he froze when the sounds of booming laughter suddenly appeared in the front of the house. He didn’t hear just one voice, it was several. It was loud, fast—echoing down below.
“Told you I’d get more kills than you today!”
“Yeah? Tell that to the half you totally missed, you blind bastard—”
“Shut up, both of you. I’m starving.”
William’s stomach dropped. Panic slammed into him like a shockwave.
He backed away from the trophy case, nearly tripping over a stepstool near the door. His foot caught the edge of a metal display stand—clatter—and something hit the floor with a sharp, echoing clang.
“Fuck--!” He swore under his breath, his heart hammering in his ears. Quickly realizing the noise he made, William slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Did you hear that?”
“Sounded like it came from the hall.”
“The kitchen’s a mess…”
“...Then that means someone in the house…”
William scanned the room wildly—nowhere to run. No windows or back door in sight. His eyes locked on a tall wardrobe cabinet set against the far wall, too ornate to belong in a utility room. He sprinted. Flinging it open, he ducked inside and pulled the door shut behind him, trying to breathe as quietly as possible through the choked heat and stale scent of polish and old wood.
Footsteps thundered through the house above him before the door was slammed open, the force shaking the hinges of the frame.
William felt his heart drop as the voices of his best friend carried through the room.
“You think it’s him?”
“No way, man. The Mark from this world wouldn’t be stupid enough to come here."
“Doesn’t matter. That means someone broke in.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s tear the place apart and find the little shit!”
William slapped a hand over his mouth to help control his breathing before it became a full-blown panic attack. They were coming closer now—and fast. Uncoordinated but deliberate. One of them was humming., another was laughing cheerfully making William’s blood turn cold at the sounds.
“We haven’t had a good kill in days. Let’s make this fun.”
“I get first hit.”
“Fuck that! You got first hit last time.”
“Shut up or I’ll gut you both and then the intruder.”
William’s body trembled inside the wardrobe; breath caught in his throat. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Please don’t find me.
Please don’t open the door.
Please—!
Creaaaak.
A footstep just outside the door.
Then a voice—low, sharp, different than the others.
“You sense that?” Silence.
Footsteps passed the wardrobe.
Closer. Then, just as sudden, the footsteps faded away. Then—total silence.
William didn’t dare move. He stayed perfectly still, shoulders hunched, body aching from the crouch. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Seconds passed. Then maybe a minute. Maybe more.
Nothing.
He couldn’t hear any of the Marks anymore. Not the laughter, not the stomping, not the bloodthirsty promises. Just silence. His fingers twitched around the handle inside the wardrobe.
‘Maybe they moved upstairs again. Maybe they’re done looking. Maybe—!’
He waited one more beat. Two. Then slowly, quietly, he pushed the door open and peeked through the crack.
The room was empty. No shadows, no movement, not one sound could be heard besides his own labored breathing. He took a shaking breath, stepped out—bare feet brushing the floorboards, heart thudding so loud it made his ears ring. Just get to the kitchen. Forget the food and just get the fuck out of the house without getting caught…or else, he had no doubt in his mind he would be brutally murdered! He sprinted across the halfway and across the room, eyes still darting between the door and the staircase.
“Okay,” William whispered to himself. “Okay, you’re okay. They’re gone. You’re—!”
“Hey, man~”
The voice came from right side behind him, his voiced laced in absolute delightment.
William spun around—and slammed directly into a broad chest, flashes of blue, yellow, and black blurred in front of him.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder like iron.
The Mark standing there smiled at him, head tilted slightly. His eyes gleamed a little too bright., too sharp.
“Going somewhere?”
William's breath hitched. He stumbled backward, trying to yank away, but the hand on his shoulder did not move. It clamped tighter—not enough to bruise just yet, but to warn.
The man standing before him looked exactly like his Mark. But William knew that all those versions of Mark were exact copies of him, but each one had their differences. This one was taller. His posture straighter. His expression more… pleased, in a patronizing kind of way. And his eyes—they weren’t wide with surprise or rage or even curiosity, they were satisfied. Like he'd just found something he'd been missing for a long, long time.
“Wait a sec…no way—William?” Emperor Mark voice was laced with surprise. For just a moment, Emperor Mark’s voice held something almost human: surprise. His brows knit together as he studied William, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
Then his tone dropped—smooth as polished marble, and twice as cold, “It is you.” His gaze swept over William slowly, expression darkening with amusement. His lip curled in a smirk. “Huh. A scrawny little thing like you actually survived. That’s... impressive.”
William’s throat worked uselessly, panic thick in his chest. He gripped Mark’s wrist with both hands, desperate, but it was like clutching cold, hard steel.
“Please!” he rasped, “I-I didn’t know—this house, I didn’t know it was yours; I was just—!”
“Hungry?” Emperor finished for him. “Yeah, we saw the mess you made.” He gave glance over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “Funny how quickly you humans lose your table manners after a few skipped meals. Shoving anything you can into your mouth like a stray dog.” His lip curled in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But I suppose that’s to be expected from something just so weak.” Using his free hand, he reached up and brush a thumb along Willam’s cheek.
William flinched at the touch. It wasn’t violent, but it wasn’t kind either, and it didn’t stop the panic that was surging through him. “Wha-what are you doing?”
But the man ignored him, inspecting the dark smudge of dirt on his thumb with faint disgust.
“Filthy,” Emperor murmured. “When was the last time you bathed?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply tsked and wiped his thumb against his sleeve, like William’s grime might stain him. “You used to be so put-together. Or was that just my William?” he added with a tilt of his head, like he was trying to figure out if this William was even worth the effort.
Feeling the heavy hand on his shoulder suddenly lift, William’s body moved before his brain could catch up. He ducked out of Emperor’s fingers, turned and ran.
He barely made it three steps.
There was a blur of motion, then the sensation of pain. Something yanked him back by the collar so hard his feet lifted off the ground. He crashed onto his back with a gasp; the breath knocked from his lungs. Before he could scramble up, a boot pressed gently, but cruelly, confidently—onto his chest, holding him in place like a pinned bug.
“I can’t tell if I want to destroy you again… or never let you out of my sight.” Emperor looked down at him, eyes gleaming with something that might’ve once been affection. Now twisted. “I always did admire how stubborn you were. Even when you were terrified, you’d still run.”
William winced when he felt the boot press down a little more.
“I regret what happened to mine, you know. I warned him not to get involved. Told him it was too dangerous, but of course he didn’t listen.” He let out a small laugh, as though reliving a precious memory and not a murder. “But he was loyal to his Mark, just like you apparently.”
William’s face twisted in horror, “I’m not your anything,” he spat, barely above a whisper, afraid that all it would take was one shift of weight of this psychotic murder to crush him.
“You’re right,” Emperor chuckled, leaning down closer to William, amused by his horrified face. “But that’s the beauty of a second chance, right? I get my best friend back. But this time… you’ll be mine the way you were meant to be, and not as a friend.”
The boot eased off William’s chest, causing him to turn to his side to cough and inhale much needed air.
“But as my toy.”
William didn’t even get a second to think.
There was the sound of another door slamming open—two more sets of footsteps this time, much to William’s horror. One heavy the other one quieter and quick.
“Damn, what’s that smell?” a voice jeered—cocky and unfiltered.
“Something human,” another voice replied, quieter, colder.
William didn’t care that it was no use, his survival instincts kicking in, begging him to make a run for it. He tried to crawl backwards, but Emperor’s hand curled around the back of his neck, kneeling next to him as he held the terrified boy in place with infuriating ease.
“Boys,” Emperor said lazily. “You’re just in time.”
A flash of blue and black dashed behind Emperor, and William’s eyes widen as he recognized this Mark version—his annoying mohawk quickly giving it away. William had seen what he was capable of—had watched him tear a man in half just to make a point. He didn’t fight to kill, he fought to entertain himself. Loud, violent, and completely unhinged, Mohawk wasn’t happy unless someone was screaming and something was bleeding.
Mohawk skidded into view first, his bare feet loud on the tile, a crooked grin spreading across his face when he saw William crumpled on the floor.
“Dude, no fuckin’ way. That’s William?” he asked, crouching down fast enough to make William flinch as he leaned way to close for comfort. “Shit, I thought he died with the rest of this dumpster of a timeline.”
Behind him came another figure William recognized instantly—Sinister.
That bright yellow and black suit was impossible to miss, sleek and spotless like he hadn’t spent a day in rubble. It clung to him like armor designed more for intimidation than protection, and somehow, it worked. William had only seen him in action once—but once had been enough. Sinister didn’t shout or gloat like Mohawk. He didn’t need to. He moved like a shadow with a pulse, quiet and deliberate, killing not out of rage but curiosity.
Of all the variants, Sinister was the one that terrified him most.
Sinister followed behind him, slower. His eyes locked on William immediately gleaming with a cold sort of hunger that made Emperor’s touch suddenly feel safe.
“He’s shaking,” Sinister observed. “Cute.”
“He tried to run,” Emperor explained, tone still calm. “Of course, he didn’t get far.”
Mohawk laughed and leaned in closer, tapping William’s chin with two fingers. “Ohhh, I like him scared.”
Sinister’s lip curled faintly—something between disgust and dark delight. “You would.”
Mohawk's grin stretched wider.
“Man… look at you,” he said, dragging a finger down the side of William’s face like he was inspecting bruised fruit. “You used to be, like, the funny one. I remember you always tagging along behind me like a loyal little mutt. Didn’t think you had it in you to survive this long.”
“D-don’t touch me,” he snapped, though his voice was hoarse and shaking.
Mohawk’s hand shot forward and caught his chin—not rough, but tight. Just enough to keep William still, to remind him exactly where he was. “Huh. Still got some teeth,” Mohawk murmured with a grin. “That’s cute.”
“Fuck off,” William spat, twisting in place. “You think this is funny? You think I want anything to do with any of you—?”
“You haven’t changed one bit...” Mohawk cut him off, leaning closer. Too close. His breath brushed William’s cheek. Then his smirk twisted, colder now. “But I’d say you’re even cuter like this.”
“Don’t slobber on him,” Sinister muttered, though he didn’t sound annoyed—just bored. Or maybe jealous. He crouched beside William’s other side, eyes flicking over his body with slow, clinical calculation. “He’s in rough shape,” Sinister added. “Could be useful, if he doesn’t break too easily that is.”
“I’m not something you can use!” William barked, thrashing against Emperor’s grip. “I’m not a damn pet—!”
William jerked back, but Emperor’s hand clamped down on his shoulder again—calm, steady, inescapable.
“Easy,” Emperor said mildly. “He’s not a chew toy.” He glanced down at William and smiled like he was offering him some kind of mercy. “At least, not yet.”
William panted, rage and fear blurring at the edges of his vision, but he still spat, “You think I’m just going to roll over for you? For any of you?” His voice cracked, but the fury in it was sharp. “I’m not your toy. I’m not your project. And I’m sure as hell not your fantasy.”
He twisted harder in Emperor’s grip.
“You’re not Mark—none of you are,” William hissed, eyes narrowing into a glare. “You’re not even close. You’re just monsters wearing his face.”
Mohawk let out a low whistle while Sinister’s head tilted.
“Tch,” Sinister clicked his tongue, “You still think there’s a difference.”
William opened his mouth to argue again—
Crack.
The back of Sinister’s hand struck his face. Fast. Sharp. Not out of rage, but out of correction.
William’s head whipped to the side, his cheek stinging immediately. He tasted blood right away.
“That mouth of yours,” Sinister murmured, fingers now gripping William’s jaw, angling it back toward him, “Even in another dimension, you just never did know when to quit.”
William winced but didn’t look away. His eyes were burning—hate, fear, pride all coiled in one trembling breath. “F-Fuck you,” he spat. “Asshole.”
Mohawk’s grin widen. “Oh, he’s spicy. Bet you say all kinds of pretty things when you’re crying.”
“Let’s find out,” Sinister said smoothly, grabbing William by the collar and yanking him forward, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
But before William could choke out a sound, Emperor’s hand snapped around Sinister’s wrist.
“Enough.” Emperor didn’t raise his voice—but the authority in it sliced through the room. “You can leave bruises later,” he said, eyes fixed on William. “For now, I want him intact.”
Sinister scoffed and let go, dropping William like garbage. William hit the ground hard, collapsing to his knees as Sinister casually brushed the dust from his sleeves—like William had contaminated him.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “You’re such a goddamn cockblock.”
Mohawk’s hand trailed toward William’s waist anyway, only for Emperor to stop him with a glance.
“You’re all talk,” William croaked, voice raw but steady. “You all are nothing but fucking imposters! No wonder you’re so afraid of him.”
Emperor raised a brow. “Scared of who exactly?”
“Mark. The real one. That is why you haven’t found him yet.”
The words hit like a slap—sharp, defiant, and laced with venom. For a beat, none of them moved. Mohawk’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching as his fists curled. Emperor’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in his grip told William he’d struck a nerve. Sinister just smiled—slow and cold—like he was already imagining how to carve the words back out of William’s mouth. The air in the room shifted, heavy and electric, like the moment before a lightning strike.
And that was when the door slammed open behind them.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Three heads turned, unimpressed. And William froze, his blood iced.
There, standing in the doorway—fists clenched, chest heaving, gaze locked on him like a man come back from the grave was Mark. Well…No, not his Mark, but close enough that his heart stuttered anyway. It was the copy of Mark that was physically the closest to his best friend.
The hair dark, tousled, falling over his brow like he hadn’t bothered to tame it in days. The build—broad-shouldered, imposing, unmistakably Viltrumite, but lacking the polished armor or regal presence of the others. And the eyes—God, the eyes—still that stormy hazel, narrowed in focus, searching the room like a weapon locking onto its target.
But it was the expression on his face that stopped William’s heart.
Not rage. Not cruelty. Not that smug hunger the others wore like a second skin. This one looked wrecked. Shocked. Furious. And something else—something close to grief.
“You lied to me,” Maskless said, voice low and sharp as a blade. He didn’t look at them—his eyes were locked on William like seeing a ghost. “You said every William was gone. That we’d already lost them all.” He took a step forward. The weight of his fury hit the room like a second gravity. “You said he was dead.”
Mohawk snorted. “He was supposed to be. How were supposed to know he actually survived the war? Can you blame us if this one slipped through the cracks?”
“Yes,” Maskless snapped, voice rising for the first time. “Because you knew. You knew—and you didn’t tell me.”
Sinister gave a lazy shrug, completely unfazed. “We never confirmed anything. And let’s be honest—you would’ve gone soft.”
“I would’ve saved him!” Maskless barked, voice cracking with fury.
William flinched at that. Not because he didn’t believe it—but because of the sheer emotion in his voice.
“You’re manhandling him,” Maskless bit out, rounding on them now. “Three against one. Pathetic, even for you.”
Mohawk scoffed, still crouched beside William with an infuriating grin. “Relax, clone boy. We were just playing.”
“He’s not a toy,” Maskless snapped.
“Then maybe he shouldn’t have broken into our house,” Sinister drawled.
William shifted, trying to breathe shallowly. Maskless stepped closer again.
Emperor, standing over William placed a hand resting calmly on his shoulder, finally spoke. “You’re being emotional,” he said, voice velvet and razor wire. “You always did have a weakness for him.”
That paused Maskless. His eyes flicked to William—briefly—but his jaw clenched hard. “He doesn’t belong to you,” he growled.
“He doesn’t belong to any of us,” Emperor replied, calm and terrifying. “But he’s here. Alive. A surprise gift, wouldn’t you say?” A slow smirk curved his lips. “...So why not share?”
“Because he’s not some thing to divide up,” Maskless hissed. “He’s a person.”
Sinister’s smirk curved coldly. “You keep saying that like it matters.”
William’s stomach turned. They were circling each other like wolves over a bone. But Maskless, he wasn’t circling, he was guarding.
“I’m taking him out of here,” Maskless said suddenly, voice final.
All three others went still.
Mohawk leaned back like he’d misheard. “You what?”
“You heard me.”
“You think we’re just gonna let you walk out with him?” Sinister asked, his voice low and threatening.
“Try and stop me,” Maskless snarled.
William paled as all the Marks in the room tensed and readied themselves for a fight, knowing the destruction they all were capable of—he wouldn’t be surprised if he got caught in that deadly crossfire!
“Enough.”
The word wasn’t shouted. But it silenced the room immediately.
William’s head snapped toward the doorway, his heart dropping even deeper at the sight. Two new figures stood there—bigger, older, more terrifying than the rest.
The one in front stepped forward—tall, broad, with faint silver at his temples and a cape draped over one shoulder like royalty. His eyes cut through the room like lasers, disappointed.
“You’re all embarrassing yourselves,” he said coolly.
Omni Mark. The oldest, calmest, and arguably the most dangerous.
Behind him, another Viltrumite followed—military posture rigid, fists flexing at his sides. His uniform was spotless, his expression not so much. And his eyes locked on William like prey. Like a tactical error that needed correction.
“This is what caused all that noise?” Viltrum asked sharply.
“He’s a survivor,” Emperor offered, still calm. “And a very interesting one.”
“He’s human,” Viltrum snapped, like the word was beneath him. “He should be in containment. Not on the floor like trash.”
Omni ignored the squabbling. He was already crossing the room, his gaze landing squarely on William. “And yet,” he murmured, “he’s still breathing.”
William didn’t move—he couldn’t, not with six versions of psychopath Marks watching him like he was a question that needed answering.
“You lied,” Maskless said, voice low but shaking. “You told me they were all gone.”
Omni’s expression didn’t change. “I believed they were.”
“Bullshit!”
“Believe what you like.” He looked back to William. “This one’s alive. That makes him… unique—an anomaly of sort.”
“Which is why I’m keeping him,” Emperor said smoothly, like it was already decided.
“Correction,” Omni replied, his tone clipped. “ We are keeping him.”
William’s heart skipped. His eyes widened. They were talking about him like he wasn’t even there.
“We don’t need a vote,” Viltrum said flatly. “Just put him in a cell and be done with it.”
“No,” Maskless snapped, sudden and sharp. “No cages.”
The others turned, even Omni paused.
Maskless stepped in front of William who stared at him with wide eyes. “You want all of us to keep him? Fine,” he said. “But he’s not going in a box, he’s not bait. He’s—”
“Dirty,” Sinister interrupted lazily. “That’s what he is.”
“He’s filthy,” Mohawk added. “Seriously, he smells like smoke and old socks.”
Omni raised an eyebrow, “Then clean him.”
The room fell quiet.
William blinked. “Wait. What?” He looked around the room at the terrifying faces of his best friend. “Can you please stop talking like I’m not even here!”
“You want him protected?” Omni said, ignoring William as he addressed Maskless now. “Fine. But that means he doesn’t look like something we scraped off a battlefield. He’ll be cleaned. Fed. Kept presentable.”
“Like a pet,” Viltrum muttered.
“Like an asset,” Omni corrected.
“Like a person,” Maskless snapped.
Omni gave him a look that said: Believe what you want. So long as he stays.
“Good,” Omni said simply then turned to leave. “Handle it.”
Viltrum send William one final look before following without a word.
The moment the door clicked shut, the tension snapped.
“I’ll take care of it,” Maskless said immediately, addressing the rest of the Marks.
“Whatever,” Mohawk clicked his tongue. “Less work for me.”
“Do clean him properly,” Emperor added, casually brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “I’d hate for him to stink up the place again.”
“And try not to break him too soon,” Sinister said, offering a thin, amused smile. “We’ve only just started playing.”
William jolted. “Wait—take care of what exactly?”
“You,” Maskless said, turning toward him. And this time… his voice softened. “You must be so uncomfortable in that,” He gestured to William’s tattered, and grime covered clothing. “You need a bath.”
William opened his mouth—but no words came out.
Maskless stepped toward him slowly, that same soft smile still tugging at his lips. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t a nightmare.
“Come on,” he said gently, offering his hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
William didn’t move. He couldn’t. His body refused to obey, frozen between exhaustion and panic. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the sound of his own breath.
Because the others were still watching. Because Maskless—his Mark, or something damn close was looking at him like he meant it.
It was like…like he cared.
And that was somehow the most terrifying part of all.
Notes:
I cannot even explain how much fun this was to write. I’ve been obsessed with the show lately (and all the terrifying possibilities of alternative Marks), so of course my brain went: “What if… post-apocalypse, William, and a bunch of wrong Marks?” And here we are.
Full disclosure — I’m very limited in my Invincible knowledge outside the show. I haven’t read the comics, so I’m mostly playing in the sandbox based on what I’ve seen onscreen (and a little bit of creative chaos).
Also… I’ve been reading a lot of William/Alternative Mark fics lately (especially Maskless 👀) and decided I had to try my hand at my own spin. This story is basically me taking that obsession and running way, way too far with it.
Thanks for reading, leave a comment and let me know your thoughts— I can’t wait to share more! 💛Take care~
Cindy
Chapter Text
Footsteps shifted, heavy boots creaking against the hardwood floor. One by one, the Marks filed out, the air thinning as the threats peeled away. The room emptied slowly—like teeth pulling free one by one.
“Guess you’re still cute enough to keep,” Mohawk Mark drawled. His hand cracked against William’s ass, hard enough to sting.
William yelped, stumbling forward as if the ground had vanished under him.
“Don’t get too comfortable.” Mohawk winked over his shoulder. “We haven’t even started the fun part yet.”
Behind him, Sinister lingered. His shadow stretched across the floor like it had a mind of its own. His voice brushed William’s ear though he never moved close. “Try not to cry too loud,” he murmured. “Or do. I like the sound.”
William froze; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth—every nerve buzzed with aftershock.
Emperor’s gaze flicked back once as he reached the door, sharp enough to cut. A faint smirk curved his lips. “Behave for him, won’t you?” he said smoothly as he made his way out the door.
The door shut. The silence after was louder than all their voices combined. William barely processed the sound of the door shutting close.
And then it was just him and the Maskless Mark.
William’s breath hitched in his throat as footsteps approached—not fast, not threatening. Almost… happy?
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Maskless murmured, lips curving into a trembling smile, tender and raw. “I thought I lost you forever… but you’re alive.”
William couldn’t make himself answer. His legs locked in place, stomach churning.
“I looked for you,” Maskless continued softly, stepping closer like this was a dream he was afraid might vanish. “My William… he didn’t make it in my world. They told me no William survived in any world, that you were all dead. That I’d never—” his voice cracked. “But then there you were. Here. You actually came back to me!”
He smiled—gentle, almost loving. A smile that should have been safe.
It was anything but.
William shook his head. His throat worked to form words, until the dam finally broke. “Dude, I’m trying to tell you—and all those other crazy Marks—I am. Not. Your William!” he cried, voice cracking with panic. “I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about. I never thought I’d be friends with you freaks in any world!”
Maskless tilted his head, the outburst rolling over him like water on glass. “You don’t have to understand,” he said gently. “You just have to know--you’re close enough.”
William’s eyes widened, his face tightening with confusion and frustration. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Maskless didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze swept downward, slow and deliberate, tracing every inch of William as though memorizing him. His brows knit together, his expression softening with tender concern.
“Don’t take it personally, but you’re a mess,” Maskless murmured. “You must be freezing…and you need some food too.” He reached out, causing William to flinch, but Maskless only brushed a bit of ash from his shoulder, gentle as a breeze. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” His hand pressed gently to the small of William’s back, guiding him forward. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”
William’s feet moved—not because he wanted them to, but because his body didn’t know what else to do. He let the grinning Mark guide him out of the room and into a narrow hallway lined with doors. From somewhere deeper in the house came booming laughter, voices clashing like fists, curses echoing through the walls. The floor trembled under his shoes, and William flinched at the jolt.
“Ignore them,” Maskless said, catching the fear etched across his face. His tone was calm, almost coaxing. “You’ll get used to the it. They won’t touch you, I promise.”
William stared at him, disbelieving. The sharp sting in his cheek where Sinister had backhanded him earlier pulsed in protest, proof that promises in this house meant nothing. That any safety promised to him from any of them were nothing but false promises.
Maskless didn’t notice—or pretended not to. His hand stayed firm at the small of William’s back, guiding him down the hall with a pressure too steady to resist. They stopped before a plain wooden door. Maskless opened it and ushered him inside with the smoothness of someone offering hospitality instead of imprisonment.
The bathroom was… pristine.
Marble counters. Gold fixtures. A clawfoot tub already half-filled with steaming water. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen, which might have been relaxing under any other circumstance. The bathroom was warm, filled with steam curling from a tub already drawn. William’s stomach knotted. How long had Maskless been planning this?
“Here,” Maskless said softly, stepping in behind him. “The water is ready, and there are the clean towels over here. You’ll feel better once you’re not covered in filth and blood.”
William hovered near the threshold, muscles locked. He didn’t trust his voice enough to speak.
Maskless leaned closer, his words brushing the back of William’s neck like a secret. “Don’t fight me on this. Let me take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” William muttered.
“Maybe,” Maskless replied gently. “But you don’t have to. Not anymore.”
William flinched as he stepped closer. Maskless’s hand rose slowly—not to grab, but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind William’s ear with disturbing tenderness. William jolted when, with superhuman speed, Maskless caught his hand instead, curling their fingers together. His thumb stroked over William’s bruised knuckles, soft as if soothing, though his grip was iron.
“You know…” Maskless began, his gaze darkening as if dredging up a wound he’d never let heal. “I only agreed to Angstrom’s ridiculous deal because he promised me this—he promised me you.”
“Dude, let go!” William grunted, jerking uselessly against the hold. “And why do you talk about me—well, the other me—like that?”
Maskless tilted his head, studying him with unblinking calm. “Like what exactly?”
“Like you had feelings for ‘me’ or something!”
Maskless tilted his head, unbothered by William’s outburst. “Of course I did,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. “In my universe, you were mine. We were together—really together. You loved me.”
William’s breath caught, his chest tightening like a vice. “B-but… Mark isn’t even gay!” he stammered. “And you are Mark, right? There’s no way he would be interested in me! What about Eve?!”
At her name, Maskless’s expression shattered. His voice dropped, freezing the air between them. “Don’t mention her in front of me.” The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by something sharp, dangerous, and familiar—the same murderous edge William had seen in the others. “She ruined everything,” he whispered, venom lacing the words. “She’s the reason Omni-Man took you from me in my world. The reason I lost you.” His grip on William’s hand tightened—not crushing, but unrelenting. “I’ll never forgive her. Not there, not here. So don’t ever say her name again.”
William’s thoughts snagged on to Maskless’s words. His stomach twisted. The other me… he’s talking about the other me. The one who didn’t make it. The one that Omni-Man killed.
“You died,” Maskless repeated softly, as if confessing a prayer. “It was the worst day of my life. But now you’re here, and you’re alive. And I’m not letting anyone hurt you again.”
William swallowed hard, his voice breaking. “You’re one of the ones hurting me.”
That made Maskless pause, his expression faltering. For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Then he shook his head, gentle and resolute.
“No. I’m not. The others might… act rough. But I’m different.” He smiled again, warm and devoted in a way that made William’s stomach turn.
“Different?” William echoed, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean different?”
Maskless only smiled. It wasn’t mocking, but it wasn’t reassuring either. It was the kind of smile that spoke of secrets William would never want to hear aloud. He let the silence hang, heavy and suffocating, before his gaze slid down to William’s ruined clothes.
“Here.” Mark gently touched the hem of William’s filthy shirt. “Let me help.”
William jerked back.
“No! I can do it. Don’t—!” William backed a step, gripping the hem of his filthy shirt like a lifeline. His voice cracked. “J-just give me a minute. Please. I need… I need some privacy, okay? I don’t care how normal this is for you—but it’s not for me.”
Maskless tilted his head, expression softening—too soft, almost like William’s fear made him more tender. He took a slow step forward, his voice gentle.
“I get it, I do. But you’re shaking, and you can barely stand.” He crouched down slightly, like he was speaking to someone smaller, someone breakable. “You’ve been through enough. Let me help you…” His hand reached out again—not forcefully, but with a kind of certainty that made William flinch anyway, making him frown. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I’m trying to take care of you.”
“I don’t need—!” William tried to fight back, but the shirt slipped from his fingers as Maskless gently tugged it away from his grip.
“I know,” Maskless said quietly, a small, almost reverent smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t have to say anything right now. Just let me look after you.”
And with that, the fabric peeled away from William’s skin—dirt-stiffened and soaked with weeks-old sweat—as Maskless began to help him undress with a reverence that felt more like possession than care.
William lunged, scrambling for the shirt, but Maskless was impossibly fast, his movements graceful in a subtly inhuman way that made resistance feel hopeless. He yelped when the shirt was yanked away, leaving him flushed, vulnerable, and exposed.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he cooed, tossing the dirty garment across the room to throw in the trash later. “There’s nothing I haven’t seen before, remember? I used to fly you home when you were too drunk to walk. You even threw up on me once, remember that?” He smiled faintly, like the memory was something fond instead of humiliating.
“Ugh! How many times do I have to say it? I am NOT your William!” He cried, trying to pull away but the protest didn’t carry weight, not with how badly he was shaking. His knees buckled as Maskless reached for his pants. “A-are you crazy, man? Stop!”
“I’m not doing anything to you, Will,” Maskless murmured, unfazed by the panic. His movements didn’t falter for a second. “I’m helping.”
The belt came undone with a soft metallic click. William squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering in his throat. He didn’t want this, didn’t want this monster’s hands on him, didn’t want him looking.
But Maskless’s hands were careful. Then—he froze.
A breath hitched, subtle but undeniable, as his eyes trailed over the marks on William’s torso: bruises, old and new, staining ribs and back; angry scabs across his arms; patches of skin rubbed raw from running, from hiding. Worse still—his bones jutting sharply, shoulders too narrow, hips like knives poked from his skin.
Maskless said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Jesus, William.”
William didn’t reply. His arms were crossed over his chest now, more to hide than warm himself.
“You let yourself get this bad?” Maskless whispered, voice soft, not angry, but wounded—as though William’s suffering was a betrayal of him.
“I didn’t let anything happen,” William snapped, trembling. “I was trying to survive—survive an apocalypse that you helped started, remember?”
Maskless flinched, just for a second, but it was there. His expression faltering like someone had just yanked the floor out from under him.
“I didn’t know,” he murmured. “God, William—I swear, I didn’t know you were alive.”
William’s lip curled as he looked away and muttered, “Yeah, well...Surprise.”
Maskless didn’t reply at first. His frown deepened as his eyes roamed William’s bruised frame, lingering far too long on the bones pressing through skin and the mottled purples blooming across his side. Then, without warning, his fingers hooked into William’s waistband and yanked everything down in one swift motion. The air hit William’s skin before he could react.
“W-what the—hey!” he blurted, twisting instinctively, but strong arms scooped under his knees and back before he could escape. His stomach lurched as his feet left the floor.
Maskless carried him like he weighed nothing, like this was just another routine chore. William’s head rolled against his shoulder involuntarily, and he hated the way the warmth of another body made his muscles ache with memory.
“I just want to help,” Maskless repeated, voice soft, almost reverent. “And now that I’ve finally found you… that means I get to make it right.” Then—gently, horrifyingly—he pressed a kiss to William’s temple. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he added. “But I’m still going to take care of you.”
William couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Somehow, that felt far more terrifying than any threat he’d heard all day.
The bathwater sloshed gently as Maskless lowered him in, hands strong but careful. The temperature was perfect—just warm enough to coax tension from William’s aching muscles, just hot enough to sting the bruises blooming across his ribs and hips.
William instinctively tried to cover himself as he sank in, drawing his knees to his chest, arms curling around them like a shield.
Maskless noticed, of course. His head tilted slightly, like a curious dog trying to understand a new puzzle, “Still feeling shy?” he gave a small fond smile. “I guess some things never change.”
William didn’t respond but sent the man a lethal glare. His cheeks burned with shame—not because of the water, not even because of the exposure, but because the man who was a killer version of his best friend was watching him like this.
Maskless’s eyes flicked over William’s hunched frame, the way his arms wrapped tight around himself like he was warding him off. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, indulgent, as though William’s terror was just another form of bashfulness. "I figured this might happen," he said quietly, rising to his feet. “So I brought someone that might make you feel better.’”
William froze, heart hammering. Another killer Mark? “B-brought someone—?”
Before he could finish, the door opened behind Maskless, and a figure William hadn’t seen in what felt like years stepped inside. “A-Amber?!” he croaked, disbelief and a flicker of hope mingling in his voice.
She looked… wrong—all wrong. Same face, same frame, but thinner and lifeless. Her eyes were vacant, her complexion paled and uneven. Her hair was tied back in a limp ponytail, and her clothes plain, functional, almost uniform that seemed to strip her of personality. Worst of all, she didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, her dark eyes were kept steadily to the ground.
“Amber?” William said again, sitting up straighter, forgetting entirely that he was naked. His chest tightened. “What the hell—what are you doing here? Are you okay??”
She didn’t answer. She simply walked forward, kneeling beside the tub next to Willian and dipping a washcloth into the water. Her movements were mechanical, detached, like she wasn’t really there at all.
“A-Amber?” William begged, his voice cracking. “Please, talk to me—”
“She doesn’t talk much anymore,” Maskless said conversationally, like he wasn’t describing something horrifying. “One of the other Marks, the scarred one—I think, found her. He said that the Amber from his world cheated on him or something like that. So he brought this world’s Amber back here as a... reminder.”
William stared in horror as Amber reached out and began gently scrubbing the dried blood and grime from his arm. Her motions were automatic, eyes unfocused, like she was somewhere else entirely.
“She was spared because she’s useful,” Maskless added, crouching beside the tub again. “And because none of us want to waste time doing laundry.”
William tried to jerk away from her touch, shaking his head. “You’re letting her be used like this? You—you’re supposed to be the good one!”
Maskless blinked, unbothered. Then he smiled again—soft, patient, terrifying.
“I’m the one who cares,” he said simply. “Which is exactly why I can’t let anyone else care about you.”
William’s heart stuttered. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
Then, Maskless stood, brushing his hands on his pants like he’d just finished some difficult task. “I’ll go find you something clean to wear,” he said lightly, as if they’d just finished a normal conversation. “Amber, finish up.”
Amber nodded once, wordless and obedient. William let out a shaky breath as he watched a blur of his Invincible costume speed out of the bathroom. The sound of rushing air faded, leaving only the faint trickle of bathwater and the soft drag of cloth against his skin. William flinched. A warm washcloth was scrubbing at his upper arm again.
“Wait—no. Hey, I can do it myself,” he blurted, chest tightening. “Amber, please—can you just… talk to me?”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. She dipped the cloth back into the water, wrung it out, and moved on to his neck, her motions practiced, detached.
“Amber.” His teeth ground together. “Look at me.”
Nothing.
“It’s me,” he whispered, desperation cracking through. “William. We had art history together. You used to call me an annoying know-it-all. You made me hold your coffee while you flirted with Mark behind the gym, remember?”
Her hand stilled. Just for a second. The cloth lingered too long against his collarbone before she pulled it away, resuming her task with mechanical precision—washing his shoulders, then his hair. William’s throat burned. He let her work in silence, tears pricking behind his eyes as the warm rinse water carried away dirt and blood but not the weight in his chest.
When Amber drained the tub and wrapped a towel around his trembling shoulders, William couldn’t take it anymore. She was a ghost of the girl he knew, hollowed out into something of a tool for those monsters to use, and it broke him.
Gently, he caught her wrist. His voice was raw, pleading. “Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t let them take everything from you.” Then, trembling, he leaned forward and hugged her.
Amber froze.
His arms wrapped around her tightly, desperate, clinging to the only shred of comfort he’d felt in weeks—someone he knew, someone who wasn’t a danger to his life.
And after a long, brittle silence… she trembled. Her hands clutched weakly at his back. Her shoulders shook. No sob escaped her lips, but he felt the hot sting of her tears against his neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked open.
Amber jolted, flinching in his arms. William pulled back just in time to see Maskless step inside, folded clothes balanced in his hands, something unreadable shadowing his face. Suddenly aware of himself, William snatched the towel from his shoulders and wrapped it hastily around his waist, his cheeks burning.
Maskless paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the scene: William damp and flushed, hair curling in the steam, skin finally scrubbed clean. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t caked in blood, sweat, or dirt.
Maskless’s expression softened. He exhaled a breath that sounded almost like relief. “There you are,” he murmured. “There’s my William.”
William recoiled instantly. “I’m not—”
Maskless raised a hand, smiling gently. “I know, I know. You’re not my Will.” He stepped forward, kneeling beside the tub. His voice dropped, almost reverent. “But you look like him again. It’s… nice. You look like someone I can take care of properly now.”
He held out the folded clothes—worn-in sweats, an oversized T-shirt, both clearly his own. “I brought these for you,” he said softly, “but I figured you’d give me hell about changing in front of me again.” His eyes flicked to Amber. His tone turned cold--commanding. “Dress him.”
William stiffened. “Wait, what? No—don’t—”
“Relax,” Maskless cooed, brushing a damp curl from William’s cheek. “She doesn’t care. Let her help you…” His hand lingered for a moment too long before he pulled back, eyes glinting. Then, as if the whole thing were some private joke, he flashed William a cheeky grin. “Unless you’d rather I dress you?”
William shook his head hard, flinching back as every word Maskless said sinking into him like ice water. He wanted to scream, to shove him away, to remind him that this wasn’t a reunion—it was captivity. But his body betrayed him. He stayed where he was, trembling, because what good would screaming do when he was surrounded? When every path back to freedom was already sealed?
Amber didn’t hesitate. Wordless, she moved forward, gently toweling off the rest of the water from William’s back and arms before beginning to pull the shirt over his head.
William bit the inside of his cheek, humiliated and shaking, but stayed still. Amber’s hands were delicate. Respectful. Like she was trying to protect what little dignity he had left.
As she worked, Maskless talked like this was all perfectly ordinary.
“I’ll get you your own clothes soon—something soft, something you’ll actually feel comfortable in. You’ve been through too much; what you need now is rest, food, maybe a haircut." His voice softened, almost dreamy, as he watched Amber slide the sweatpants over William’s hips. "There are still a few places we left untouched when we took over. We kept them… for sentimental reasons.”
He tapped a finger against his temple. “Like the mall you always used to drag me to remember? You complained the food court sucked, but you never let us miss a sale. We can go there again, if you want.”
It made William sick.
This man was seriously, terrifyingly unwell. To speak so casually—so cheerfully—about the destruction he helped unleash on this Earth, the death of millions… and yet talk about shopping malls and sales like nothing had changed. Like they were just two old friends catching up.
Amber had just finished dressing him and stepped back, head hung low. Maskless’s eyes lingered on William with fondness. A glimmer of something possessive curled at the edge of his smile. Then he blinked, as if remembering something trivial.
“Oh. That’s right…” he said softly. “I almost forgot.”
William’s blood turned cold when Maskless turned toward Amber, that same gentle smile on his face.
Then—before either of them could react—he moved. A blur. A hand snapping forward, efficient and unhurried, like swatting away a fly. Amber’s neck cracked with a sickening finality, her body crumpling to the floor without a sound.
Her body dropped soundlessly to the floor.
William stared at the body. His mind couldn’t catch up. One moment Amber was standing, alive, real. The next—she was gone. Collapsed like a doll whose strings had been cut.
William’s breath hitched, he could feel himself go pale as the nausea started building up. He stumbled backward until the back of his knees hit the large tub; he turned and dropped to his knees when he let out a gag. He gripped the edge of the porcelain before he vomited over the side, thin bile, nothing left in him but panic and despair. The sob that tore from his throat after was the only thing he muster to do to manage the pain.
Maskless knelt beside the tub again, calm as ever. He reached out and tucked William’s long damp hair behind his ear before lowering down his back in soothing circles. “Shhh… hey. It’s okay. It’s over now.”
Emptying what little he had in his stomach, William flinched back, teeth chattering. “You—you killed her,” he rasped. “You murdered her! She—she was helping me—”
“I know,” Maskless said gently, grabbing a clean towel and dabbing at William’s mouth.
William’s voice cracked, tears streaking down his face. “She didn’t do anything—So why?! Wasn't she your friend in your world too?!”
“She didn’t have to,” Maskless said simply. “She saw you, reached for you, and you let her hug you, William.” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked… sad. Like it genuinely hurt him to explain something that should have been obvious. “I told you. I care.” His hand smoothed down William’s damp shoulder, steady. “And because I care, I can’t let anyone else get close enough to make you forget who you belong to.”
William choked on another sob, trembling all over.
Maskless smiled softly, brushing a hand down his arm like comforting a scared child.
“She could’ve confused you. You’re fragile right now and scared. What if you’d started feeling grateful to her? What if she made you smile?” His eyes darkened—not angry, but resolute. “I can’t take that chance.”
William clutched the edge of the tub like it might save him from drowning in this moment.
“I’m not going to lose you,” Maskless whispered. “Not again. Never again.”
Then, as if they hadn’t been discussing murder and obsession, he reached for a towel and began gently drying William’s hair. Maskless’s touch blurred at the edge of William’s vision. His hands were warm. Gentle.
William swayed. He couldn’t stop shaking. His limbs felt cold even though the room was still foggy from the bath’s steam. His eyes burned, but there were no tears left—only the lingering echo of Amber’s body hitting the tile.
“Hey…” Maskless’s voice was soft but distant. “You’re safe now.”
That lie was the last thing he heard before the darkness took him.
The first thing his mind could register was the feeling of silk against his skin.
The sheets beneath him were absurdly soft—expensive, the kind he only ever felt while shopping with Mark at upscale department stores, back when life was normal, when Mark had been his friend, when everything had felt safe.
He slowly opened his eyes. The room was dim, unnervingly quiet.
His body ached from head to toe. Muscles screamed as he sat up, breath catching like he’d been punched in the chest. For a long moment, he didn’t move—just stared down at his lap. The clothes Amber had dressed him in clung to his skin, warm now, carrying the faint scent of something clean.
It made his stomach twist.
Amber had done this. She had pulled him from the filth, cleaned his skin with trembling hands, helped him dress in silence. She hadn’t spoken a word—just moved like a ghost—but he’d seen the haunted look in her eyes. She was already gone in so many ways. And now… now she was gone forever. His hands curled into the fabric at his knees, trembling. She had been kind. Not just now—but before, back when they were younger. Normal. He remembered her laugh, sharp and witty. Remembered her rolling her eyes at Mark’s jokes, telling William he was smarter than he gave himself credit for.
And now she was just another body on the floor. Snapped out of existence because of him.
William’s hands curled into the fabric at his knees, trembling.
And now she was just another body on the floor. Snapped out of existence because of him.
His breath stuttered. It was his fault. If he hadn’t hugged her—if he hadn’t said anything—maybe she’d still be alive. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Because to them… nothing mattered. Not unless it was theirs.
He dragged in a shuddering breath, but it didn’t help. The room still spun. His chest felt tight. Amber’s body. Her eyes. That snap. That sound. She’d been killed like she was nothing.
And the worst part?
The man who did it was the one who claimed to care about him.
Dread bubbled low in his stomach as his eyes scanned the room. It was massive, easily double the size of his old college dorm. A sprawling black-and-silver aesthetic covered everything from the velvet curtains to the sleek, minimal furniture. A large armoire stood across from the bed, its doors ajar. Inside were several variations of the same outfit: a blue-and-yellow bodysuit, folded or hung like some obsessive collection. Some pristine, some bloodstained. One had a jagged tear across the chest.
William swallowed hard. This had to be Maskless’s room.
He could still feel the ghost of the man’s hands on him—calm, careful, possessive. Could still feel the faint brush of lips against his temple.
His pulse kicked up again. He had to get out.
Kicking off the blankets, William swung his legs off the bed and stood a little too fast. Pain shot through his calves; his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the mattress, panting. His body wasn’t ready, not really—but if he waited too long, Maskless might come back. And next time… he might not leave him alone.
The hallway was quiet—too quiet.
William’s bare feet thudded against the cold marble as he bolted from the bedroom, ignoring the ache in his joints and the way the unfamiliar clothes clung to his body like a second skin. He didn’t know where the others were—but he could tell, for now, the house was still. He wasn’t about to waste that gift.
The hallway beyond stretched out in both directions—dark wood floors, sconces flickering with low amber light, and a disturbing kind of peacefulness humming through it all. It didn’t feel like a villain’s lair. It felt like a home. And completely, utterly wrong.
He recognized the long corridor from earlier. The one with the tall front doors at the end. Freedom.
William’s legs moved before his mind caught up. He had to run. He had to get away, even if there was nowhere left to go. The front door wasn’t far, if he could just reach it—!
Then the very air snapped.
A presence slammed into his field of vision, sudden and impossible, like the air itself had shifted. The house shook when the ceiling was crushed by an invisible force. He barely had time to register the flash of blue, black, and yellow, the Invincible suit, clinging tightly to a body that was all lethal muscle and sharp angles.
Target Mark.
The jagged lines of his jaw, the wild tousle of black hair, and the sharp, infuriating smirk on his face were instantly recognizable. His dark eyes burned with the same reckless violence William had seen before: the thrill of confrontation, the arrogance of someone who knew he could crush anything in his path. The faint scar across his cheek, the flex of his clenched fists, the way his shoulders hunched like a predator ready to strike—everything about him screamed brash, dangerous, unstoppable.
William’s stomach dropped. He knew that smirk. That confidence. That raw, unapologetic hunger for control. He’d seen what Target could do, what he enjoyed. And now it was here, blocking the only way out.
Before he could react, Target cracked his knuckles, the sound low, deliberate, and menacing.
“Damn. He made it this far without anyone catching him?” he growled, voice low and mean. “You idiots getting soft or what?”
William scrambled back, his legs kicking wildly trying to get away. “No—no, no, no—!” His back slammed into something unyielding.
Another presence loomed behind him.
From a side corridor, someone stepped out of the shadows—slow, quiet. Like a ghost.
This Mark was a ruin. The moment William saw him, his stomach sank—he knew exactly who this was. His skin, a raw, angry reddish hue, was mottled with scar tissue and jagged burn marks, a roadmap of every experiment, every punishment, every moment of torment he had endured in other worlds. His head was completely bald, the scalp a crisscrossed network of healed and unhealed scars, the ugly memory of pain etched into every inch.
His eyes, deep-set and wary, flicked over William with a strange intensity—part recognition, part calculation. There was a quiet menace in the way he moved, deliberate and controlled, like a predator who had learned to survive by hiding in plain sight. His clothes were simple, functional, and worn—torn in places, faded, as if comfort and appearance no longer mattered.
Prisoner stared at William like he was a hallucination. “…William?” he rasped.
William froze. He didn’t sound angry, he sounded… stunned? But before William could react, a final presence moved behind him.
A third Mark emerged from the shadows, clad head-to-toe in a black-and-blue bodysuit that molded to his frame like living armor. Every line of the suit suggested precision, control, and a calculated power that William could feel pressing in on him. His mask—perfectly seamless, featureless—hid everything: no eyes, no mouth, no hint of emotion. Yet somehow, William could sense the weight of him, the gaze that followed, measured and unflinching, like the very air had a predator in it.
He said nothing, not a word, not a sound, and yet every step he took toward William carried intent. Slow, deliberate, silent—like gravity itself guided his movements. The presence of Masked Mark was unnervingly calm, a stark contrast to Target’s brash energy and Prisoner’s tortured intensity. He radiated control, patience, and a quiet dominance that made the other two seem almost reckless in comparison.
Masked said nothing. But he stepped forward slowly, gaze locked.
William turned, eyes wide, panic swelling in his chest. He was surrounded on all sides. How many of them were there? How many more could be watching, waiting, ready to surround him?!
Target grinned viciously. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
William’s chest heaved, his pulse hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. The corridor seemed to shrink around him, air thick and suffocating.
Prisoner took a step closer; his ruined face caught in the dim light. The rasp in his throat broke into something like a laugh—except it carried no humor at all. “No… it can’t be. You’re dead. I saw you die.” His fingers trembled, then curled into fists. “So how are you here?”
William’s mouth went dry. He pressed himself tighter against the wall, wishing it would swallow him whole.
Target rolled his shoulders and barked a harsh laugh. “Dead in your world, maybe. Doesn’t mean this one isn’t ripe for the taking.” He jerked his chin toward William. “Looks alive enough to me.”
Prisoner’s gaze snapped to him, a snarl flickering. “Shut up.”
William flinched at the sharpness in his voice, but before he could even process it, Masked Mark moved. Silent, steady—like gravity itself was pulling him closer. Every shift of fabric from that bodysuit sent William’s nerves on edge. He had no expression, no voice, nothing for William to cling to—but somehow the weight of his stare pressed heavier than either of the others.
William’s breath hitched. “Please,” he whispered. His voice was small, cracked. “Just… let me go.”
For a moment, the three Marks simply looked at him—like predators circling, weighing when to pounce.
Then Target smirked, stepping closer until the floor creaked under his boots. “Go? After all that effort we’ve put in? Nah.” He cracked his knuckles again, grinning wider. “Now you’re staying.”
Masked raised a gloved hand—gentle, controlled, and offered it to William.
But William couldn’t move. He was surrounded. And whatever these three were—heroes, villains, monsters—he knew now that he was far, far from saved.
“Hey, it’s okay,” one of them said—soft, gentle, almost soothing. It was Masked. His voice cut through the panic with quiet assurance. “You’re safe, I swear.”
William’s breath caught. That voice—it wasn’t twisted with cruelty or thunderous like the rest. It carried a softness, an echo of the Mark he knew. For the first time, it didn’t sound like a stranger speaking through his face. It was probably a mercy that his entire face was hidden behind that smooth, featureless mask. If William saw his eyes—his face—he might’ve actually mistaken him for the real thing. For his best friend. Not a monster wearing his voice like a glove.
William couldn’t help the involuntary flinch his whole body did trying to back away as Masked made his way over.
“Ha!” Target’s laughter shattered the moment, sharp and cruel that made William flinch. “Looks like he doesn’t like you, dude. Step aside, maybe he’ll like me better.”
William’s gaze snapped back to Masked. Before he could think, he seized the outstretched hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to life. Desperation—not trust—drove him to cling as if Masked’s hand were a lifeline. And maybe, in a sick way, it was the safer option.
Masked helped him carefully to his unsteady feet. But before William could steady himself, Prisoner leaned closer, his ruined presence pressing in on him, eyes unblinking and unrelenting. Prisoner stared at William like he couldn’t blink, like doing so would make him vanish.
“You really aren’t dead,” he rasped, his voice ground down to gravel. “They told me you were gone in every world. That even the best of us couldn’t save you.” His eyes—hollow, exhausted—scoured William’s face for proof. “But you’re here.”
“Like I keep telling them—I am not ‘your’ William,” William hissed, inching back to put space between his body and Prisoner’s. “You’re all insane.”
Target snorted. “Told ya’ he’s still got some bite. It’s kinda cute.” His boots thudded against the floor as he moved to the side, arms folded across his chest. “Bet that attitude disappears real quick once he sees what the rest of us have planned.”
Prisoner glared at him. “He’s not some toy, Target.”
Target smirked. “Keep dreamin’. He ain’t the same one you screwed up with. This one ain’t your little boytoy from your world, dude.”
William’s chest heaved. The way Prisoner had stepped in front of him—like a guard, not a captor—made his stomach twist.
“I’m not yours,” William said again, quieter this time. But the words came out more like a plea than a command. “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
“That’s okay,” Prisoner murmured. “You don’t have to. Just let me keep you safe this time.”
“This time?” William’s lip curled. “God, what did your William have to survive before you decided to grow a conscience?”
Prisoner didn’t flinch—but something hollow flickered behind his eyes.
Before he could answer, Target let out a bark of laughter and kicked off the wall with a thud.
“Oh, he’s got fire. I like that,” he said with a smirk. “C’mon, Prisoner. You gonna cry now? Or you finally gonna admit it—this whole thing ain’t about keeping him safe. You just want a do-over.”
“Shut up…” Prisoner growled, fists curling at his sides, jaw tight with barely restrained rage. He looked a heartbeat away from lunging at Target.
William flinched, bracing himself for the fight, ducking instinctively as tension coiled in the air.
But before the two could lunge, Masked stepped forward—calm, controlled, with the kind of ease that made the others still. His gloved hand slid between them, not in warning, but in quiet command.
“Enough,” Masked said, calm as a blade. “I don’t want to deal with another ceiling down or another mess. So handle yourselves or get lost.”
Target blinked, then scoffed, fists clenching. “What are you—?”
“You.” Masked turned to him, unflinching. “Fix the damage you made when you crashed through the roof.”
Target gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath, but finally gave a sharp nod. “Fine. But don’t think this makes me happy,” he growled.
Masked didn’t wait for more. He turned to Prisoner. “And you—help him. You’ve got enough pent-up energy to burn, so be useful.”
Prisoner looked like he wanted to argue, but his eyes drifted to William, and whatever fire was building behind them dulled. He ‘tch’ but nodded once, tight and silent before speeding out the room after Target.
After a pause, Masked turned back to William. His tone softened. “You haven’t eaten right? You need food.”
William didn’t move, his body trembled beneath the borrowed clothes. If he wasn't so terrified, he would be in awe how easily this Masked version of Mark was able to control the other two violent variants with ease. His fingers dug into the floor beneath him, like he was trying to anchor himself to reality. “I’m not hungry,” he whispered.
“You will be,” Masked said, holding his hand out again. “Come on.”
William stared at it. At the hand then at the man. It wasn’t kindness in his voice. Not really. It was something worse—something calm and patient and convinced this was all inevitable.
“You’re not giving me much of a choice, are you?” William murmured.
Masked titled his head, “Would it matter if I did?”
William swallowed hard, the weight of the words pressing down like a collar. At last, he lifted his hand and let Masked pull him up. Masked’s grip was steady as he guided William forward, their footsteps soft against the marble floor. The corridor stretched ahead—long, endless, familiar. Like the ribs of a beast that had already swallowed him whole.
He didn’t fight. Not this time.
Because there was no door left to run to. No escape without another wall behind it. Just him, and all the ways these killer monsters who wore his best friend’s face.
William walked. And the house closed in around him again—beautiful, sterile, suffocating.
A prison dressed like a home.And with every step, he couldn’t help but wonder—how many of them were waiting for him inside?
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the love and support for this story, it’s been such a wild, thrilling ride to write so far. Your comments, kudos, and theories mean the absolute world to me.
And yes… I killed Amber. 💔 Because let’s be honest, this is not a happy story 😭 I wanted it to be devastating, gut-wrenching, and maybe even a little cruel. And it’s only going to get darker from here. Now that the final three Marks are introduced, next chapter we'll have all of them together to torture poor William 🫣
Thank you again for sticking with me through the chaos, I’m so excited to share what comes next. 🖤
Take care~
Cindy
Chapter Text
William walked in silence.
His bare feet padded across polished floors that gleamed too clean, too clinical. The hallway stretched long and quiet, swallowing every trace of resistance. Behind him, Masked moved with steady patience, offering quiet reassurances in that low, gentle voice. William didn’t respond. His body still ached but his heart ached worse.
They reached a wide set of double doors.
Masked pushed them open, and William’s breath caught.
The room beyond was massive—part dining room, part lounge, part hell. An opulent space dressed in wood and leather and warm golden lighting. A long table stretched down the middle, its surface already set with silver trays and steaming food. Plates. Glasses. Napkins. Like it was all normal family living here.
And around the table, they waited.
Five pairs of eyes cut through him like knives.
Five Marks, with the Masked one following right behind him. William froze, his pulse stuttering. He figured the last two were still fixing the roof, but he knew better than to think they won’t finish quickly. Seeing as though two Viltrumites could finish fixing up the roof in minutes. They’d be here soon.
Masked gently placed a hand on William’s back, guiding him forward. He stepped inside like a lamb being led into the lion’s den, the golden light of the dining room doing nothing to soften the predatory gazes that cut him from all sides.
Target was the first to smile, smooth as silk, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Well, there he is. All cleaned up. Doesn’t he look… so pretty?” His voice slid across the room, deliberate, almost like a trap. “Thank you, Maskless. That was… thoughtful.”
Mohawk lounged on a leather couch, boots kicked up casually on the edge, but the sharpness in his gaze belied the relaxed posture. He let out a low whistle. “Damn… didn’t know he could clean up this nice.”
Sinister leaned forward across the table, grin stretching wide. “So fragile…like a little kitten! I wonder how long he’ll last.” His voice was soft, but the promise of cruelty in it made William flinch.
The air seemed to thicken around him, a weight pressing on his chest. His body trembled despite himself, and just as he tried to shrink back, the last two arrived. Target and Prisoner stepped into the room, moving like shadows.
Target stretched, rolling his shoulders, and let out a scoff. His eyes scanned William like he was a weak meal. “Looks like someone’s about to pass out again,” he sneered. “Pathetic.”
Prisoner’s gaze followed closely, intense and unreadable, and William’s stomach twisted at the thought of being surrounded on all sides.
“He doesn’t need to be strong,” Omni said flatly from the far end of the table, arms crossed. “He needs to stay where he’s put.”
“Like I said before, like a pet.” Viltrum muttered beside him, almost bored.
Prisoner stood in a corner away from the rest, arms folded. His eyes weren’t cruel, but they weren’t exactly kind either. Just… sad and silent.
William’s pulse thundered in his ears.
He felt seen, watched…Eight versions of his best friend—his Mark—watching him like he was prey, a treasure, a threat, a ghost, a trophy, a toy all at once.
“Why am I here?” William managed, voice hoarse.
“That’s a silly question,” Target said with a chuckle. “You’re here because we want you. And because you have the privilege of becoming ours.”
William jerked back, his voice cracking. “N-no! No, no—fuck that! I’m not yours, I’m not anyone’s!” His breath hitched in shallow bursts, panic clawing at his lungs. “You don’t know me—you just see what you want to see! I’m not him. I’m not your lost project, or your failure, or your replacement!” His legs shook as he backed away. “You can’t just claim someone like they’re property—that’s not care, it’s control! It’s sick!”
For a beat, silence hung thick as stone.
Then Target barked out a laugh, sharp and cruel. “Listen to him—already fighting like he’s got a choice.” He rolled his shoulders, amused. “Kinda cute.”
Sinister tilted his head, grin splitting wider. “Property, pet, obsession—call it whatever you want. Doesn’t matter the word. Because in the end, you are stay with us. That’s the only truth you need.”
Prisoner flinched, just barely—eyes dark, jaw tight, but he said nothing.
Mohawk leaned forward on the table, grin sharp. “Aw, don’t worry your pretty little head, sweetheart. We’ll figure out how to share.”
William jolted back another step but hit something solid—no, someone. Masked. That hand stayed at his back, steady and unyielding, a guiding touch that felt less like comfort and more like a shackle.
“You don’t have to be scared,” Masked said softly, voice smooth as glass. “We’ll take care of you.”
William turned his head slowly, horror creeping into his bones. His pulse hammered in his throat, but anger flared hotter than fear. “I don’t want to be taken care of,” he hissed, forcing steel into his shaking voice. “Not by the people who destroyed my home.”
Sinister laughed, dark and low. “He still thinks he has a choice.”
Omni didn’t look as amused as he turned to Viltrum and said, “I told you he’d need proper adjustment.”
William’s chest heaved. He didn’t want to sit, didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to be here—yet all of them were still watching. And the worst part was the way some of them looked at him, not with hunger, but with a terrible certainty, as though he already belonged to them.
"None of you know me," William said suddenly, his voice breaking but carrying through the room. "I don’t care how many times I have to say it—whoever you think I am, whatever you’re searching for—it’s not me."
Silence fell, sharp and brittle. Several of them stilled.
William took a step back, trembling but unyielding. “I don’t know what fantasy you’ve built in your heads, but I’m not your second chance. I’m not your toy. And I’m sure as hell not your William—just like none of you are my best friend.”
Target tilted his head. "Maybe. But you’re still a version of all of our ‘William’, that’s good enough for us.”
"No, I’m not!" William snapped, voice rising. "You don't get to put your broken dreams on me just because I look like someone you lost! I'm not going to help you fix your past. I'm not some bandage for your mistakes."
Target let out a low, mocking whistle. "Oooh. He’s getting feisty again."
Masked's hand twitched slightly behind him but said nothing.
Prisoner's jaw tensed, a flicker of shame in his eyes. As well as Maskless.
Sinister smiled wider. "He doesn't want to be a bandage, huh? Maybe we can find a different use for him."
William's heart pounded. His voice was raw now. " This isn’t about me. I’m just a stand-in you can control, so stop pretending this is anything else."
Omni rose slowly; eyes fixed on William like a scientist staring at a specimen that refused to behave. "You're right. You're not our ‘William’. But you'll learn to become exactly what we need."
William looked to each of them—eight monsters, eight broken mirrors of the man who used to be his best friend. He felt like he was standing in a dream he couldn't wake up from. And this time, no one reached out to guide him. He was completely, utterly surrounded.
“William,” Maskless said softly, stepping toward him. His voice was warm, almost pleading. “You’re overwhelmed—I get it. But it’s okay now, let me help-!” He reached for William’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
William recoiled like he’d been burned, heart slamming in his chest. Amber’s lifeless body on the bathroom floor flashed in his head—her blood, the casual way Maskless had ended her—and bile rose in his throat.
“Don’t touch me!” he shouted, stumbling back, his voice cracking under the weight of panic. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
The air in the room went taut.
Maskless froze, hand still suspended midair. “Will…”
“Did you forget what you did?!” William spat, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “A-Amber…she was trying to help me. And you—you killed her. You just snapped her neck like it was nothing!”
The air shifted. The others turned at that. A ripple of silence fell, heavy and sharp. Several Marks’ eyes narrowed.
“…Who’s Amber?” Omni asked, genuinely confused, but no one bothered to answer him.
Target’s mouth twitched into a cruel grin. “You finally cleaned up after yourself? I was wondering how long you’d let the maid run around.”
Masked pushed off the wall, his tone low and unreadable. “You killed Amber?”
Maskless met his gaze without flinching. His answer was disturbingly steady and casual.
“She crossed a line. I made sure she won’t ever touch William again.”
Mohawk let out a low whistle, grin tugging at his mouth. “Damn, man. You actually did it?”
Target just smirked, a flicker of cruelty in his gaze. “She didn’t matter. There’s always another slave to replace her.”
Viltrum folded his arms, voice even, almost tired. “Better now than later. She would’ve only gotten in the way.”
William’s pulse hammered in his ears. They dismissed Amber’s murder as if it were a chore already forgotten. Just another body. Just another problem erased. Her death was just… background noise to them.
“I would’ve done the same,” Prisoner muttered from the edge of the group. His voice was like gravel, scraping against the silence. “My Amber was a lying bitch too. Couldn’t keep her legs shut if her life depended on it.” He glanced toward William. “Yours was better off.”
William’s stomach turned. The words landed like a punch, knocking the breath from his chest. For a moment, he just stared, unable to process that they’d come from him—one of the few Marks who seemed less vicious, less monstrous than the rest. Prisoner had been scarred, broken, almost human in a way the others weren’t. William had clung to that sliver of difference, like maybe there was someone in this nightmare who could understand him.
But now… now that illusion was gone. His skin crawled. His pulse thundered in his ears, dread sinking deep in his gut. If even Prisoner—with his ruined body and haunted eyes—could talk about Amber like that, then there really was no one here to trust. No one left who could see William as anything but theirs.
The fragile spark of hope he’d been nursing guttered out, leaving him with the cold, crushing certainty that he was utterly alone.
“I know this is a lot,” Maskless said, cutting through William’s spiral, stepping forward like nothing had happened. “You’re tired and you’re confused. You’ve been through more than anyone should.”
William staggered back, but Maskless didn’t stop.
“You haven’t eaten, have you?” Maskless voice dropped to something too soft, too sweet. “When’s the last time? Two days? Three?” He glanced briefly at the others. “He’s shaking. That’s not just fear, it’s his blood sugar. He needs to eat something and soon.”
“Ughh,” Mohawk groaned with a roll of his eyes. “Pathetic. He doesn’t need coddling—he needs to learn.”
Maskless didn’t acknowledge Mohawk’s little remark. He bent at the knee slightly, lowering himself just enough to catch William’s wild eyes without closing the distance.
“Just eat something,” he coaxed, his tone velvet over barbed wire. “You’ll feel better. Everything’s harder on an empty stomach.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” William rasped. His chest heaved, breaths scraping raw as his gaze flicked desperately from face to face. “I’m not staying here. I’m not part of this… insane fantasy you’ve built—I’m not him!”
Maskless’s smile didn’t falter. It softened, curling at the edges with that same serene, smothering madness that made William’s skin crawl.
“But you are, William,” he said gently. “You’ll understand soon enough….we’ll help you see that.”
Sinister chuckled low in his throat, a sound that vibrated like a threat. “I like him more when he bites back. Almost makes me want to see how long he lasts before we break him.”
Target snorted, cracking his knuckles one by one like warning shots. “Why waste time? He’ll crack faster if we push enough.”
“Enough.” Omni’s voice cut through, sharp but measured, like a father slapping the table to hush unruly sons. “We keep him whole. That was the agreement.”
Viltrum leaned back, voice little more than a growl under his breath. “Whole doesn’t mean untouched.”
William’s knees almost buckled. His body was still recovering—bruised, exhausted, and aching—but the worst pain was in his chest. That crushing realization. There was no help coming. Just eight versions of someone he once loved each of them convinced he was something they could mold, possess, or worship.
He had no idea which was worse.
And then Maskless reached out again. Not grabbing him—just offering a hand, but the movement still made William flinched back.
“Please,” he said. “Come sit. Let me get you some real food in you. After everything… don’t you at least deserve that?”
William stared at the hand. His throat bobbed, but no sound came out. He didn’t take it.
Maskless didn’t push. He simply straightened, the faintest nod passing between him and the others. And then William felt it—that tightening of space, eight bodies closing ranks without lifting a finger. Not a touch, not a shove, but the quiet pressure of inevitability.
So he moved. Because there was nowhere else to go.
The dining room was too elegant to belong to monsters.
It stretched long and wide, with a table carved from obsidian-black wood, polished to reflect the chandelier’s low, golden light. The plates were fine china. The silverware gleamed. Each seat was perfectly spaced—eight on either side, one at each end—but only nine were filled.
William sat at the head of the table. Not by choice. He’d tried to slip into a seat along the side, somewhere forgettable, but Maskless’s hand had steered him—calm, firm, inescapable—into the throne-like chair at the end. A place of honor. A place of sacrifice.
He stared at the plate in front of him. Roast meat, steamed vegetables, and something that looked like mashed potatoes but was too smooth, too perfect. There was even a crystal glass filled with red wine—not that William dared touch it.
“Eat,” Omni said flatly from halfway down the table, already sawing through his own steak.
“He’s still nervous,” Maskless murmured at William’s side, his tone soft, coaxing. “Give him a moment.”
“A minute?” Target barked a laugh. “Man’s been sitting there for five already like we laced it with poison.”
“We didn’t, right?” Mohawk teased as he grinned around a mouthful of food, bits of meat flashing between his teeth.
William didn’t laugh. He could barely breathe. Every time he dared glance up, another version of Mark was watching him—studying, smiling, waiting. Like he was meant to perform for them.
“…This is fucking insane,” William whispered, barely audible, but of course every one of them heard.
“Insane?” Sinister clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You’ll live in whatever luxury remains, safe from hunger, safe from harm. No cages. No shackles. No one daring to lay a hand on you. That’s more than most get.” He sipped his wine, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “You should be grateful.”
Maskless leaned in, his shoulder brushing William’s arm, a gesture that felt both protective and inescapable. His voice dropped, low and intimate, meant only for William.
“Don’t listen to him. You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready.”
“Or eat,” Prisoner added, though his voice was gruffer, his eyes fixed on his own untouched plate. “Just… don’t pass out again. That was hard to watch.”
“…,” William looked away from the scarred Mark. “I’m not… hungry,” he muttered at last.
“You’re starving,” Target corrected without even looking up. He sliced through his meat with mechanical precision, calm and neat.
“Do you want to die?” Omni said, setting his glass down with a quiet, deliberate clink that made William flinch. “Because that’s what happens when you waste away. We’re not letting you rot just because you can’t handle this.”
William’s hands clenched under the table. “I’m not being dramatic. I’m being held here against my will.”
“No one’s stopping you from eating,” Target shrugged. “If we were really monsters, you’d be chained to the wall and eating out of a dog bowl.”
“Don’t give anyone ideas,” Sinister said lazily.
William stayed silent, eyeing the Marks warily. The worst part was how normal they sounded. No shouting, no overt cruelty. Just calm voices, measured words, and elegant meals—as if this wasn’t a hostage situation but some twisted family dinner.
Target broke the silence first, tapping his fork against his plate like a ticking clock.
“So what’s it gonna be?” he asked lightly. “You eat on your own… or do we help you along?”
William said nothing. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, shoulders hunched, breath shallow. The scent of food—real food, warm and rich and familiar—made his stomach curl in knots, but not from hunger, but from fear.
“Seriously?” Mohawk groaned, throwing his hands up. “We went through all this trouble and you’re still pouting? Shit, I’ll shove it down his throat myself if I have too.”
He stood, reaching across the table with a sharp smile—but Masked caught his wrist mid-motion, never once looking up from his plate.
“Let him be stubborn,” Masked said calmly. “He’ll learn soon enough.”
William’s nails dug crescents into his palms under the table. Learn. What would that mean, here? What would they make him learn? He swallowed hard.
His throat felt tight. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered, though the words sounded small even to him.
Omni arched a brow. “You haven’t eaten in days.”
“I’d rather starve than accept anything from you.”
That got a few reactions. A snort from Sinister. A scoff from Viltrum. And a slow, almost impressed smile from Maskless.
But then…Prisoner leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his fingers curled loosely around his own cup.
“I remember when my William said that,” he said quietly. “Said he didn’t need my help and kept trying to run.” His voice turned bitter. “Didn’t get very far after good old Dad crushed his spine.”
Sinister hummed, swirling wine in his glass. “Mine tried to play mediator. Always thought he could bring peace between me and Dad. He got a little too annoying and I crushed him to finally make him shut up.”
“Oh! Mine blew up with his stupid little resistance base,” Mohawk added cheerfully. “Boom! And he was gone. There wasn’t even enough of him left behind to scrape off my boots.”
William’s face had gone pale, his chest heaving slightly. It was nauseating how easily they could talk about his other self’s deaths like they were discussing the next family vacation. It was a cold but necessary reminder how little they actually cared about his own life, no matter how much some of them say otherwise.
“I don’t care how yours died,” William hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m not him.”
The words hung in the air. Eight sets of eyes turned on him—studying, weighing, waiting.
Then Target leaned in, voice smooth as oil. “Exactly. You’re not. Which is why we still have a chance to get it right.” His smile flicked toward the others. “I think we can all admit we made some… mistakes in our timelines.”
“We all lost you in some way or another,” Masked spoke again—soft, almost apologetic, catching William’s attention once again. “But you’re still alive here. That’s all that matters.”
William stared at the food. At the eight shadows watching him from all sides of the table. The air felt thick, pressing in from every angle. Like the walls themselves were waiting to see if he’d cave.
William swallowed back bile, his voice shaking but cutting through the quiet like a knife.
“Y-you’re all just…sitting here! Like a goddamn family dinner, like all of this is normal.” He swept his gaze around the table, eyes wide and wild. “How the hell are you not tearing each other apart? You’re all the same person. Shouldn’t you be trying to kill each other? Or—hell—arguing over who gets to keep me chained up in their basement or something?”
Target grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Tempting.”
“It’s cute that you think we didn’t already try,” Sinister said smoothly, sipping from his glass. “We weren’t always this civil.”
Viltrum didn’t look up from his plate as he gracefully continued to eat, “It only took destroying Earth’s major cities, murder all heroes, destroyed this timeline’s Viltrumites, and conquering civilization, did we find…common ground.”
William started, “So that’s it? You all teamed up because what exactly? You’re lonely?”
Target leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands laced. “We all got dumped here with nothing—no way back, no orders, no big bad mission. Just a busted planet and a lot of empty time. Then you show up, and, well… you’re the only thing here worth giving a damn about.”
“We could’ve torn what’s left of this planet apart fighting over you,” Omni’s voice cut in. “We almost did.”
“Would’ve burned through all of us for nothing,” Masked said quietly. “This way, everyone keeps what matters.” He paused, and even with his face hidden behind the mask, William felt those unseen eyes lock on him. “So we chose a compromise.”
William’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “What kind of compromised?”
Sinister tilted his head, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That you stay in one piece while we figure out the rest. Beats tearing each other apart, don’t you think?”
Viltrum finally spoke, lowering his knife to the plate. “Order keeps us alive. We’ve endured this long without turning on one another; we’d be wise to continue that way. Fighting over you would only end in disaster—and most of us wouldn’t walk away from it.”
William let out a laugh that was dry, humorless, “So what—this is it? We’re pretending to be one big happy family of psychos?”
Target tilted his head, a sharp click of his tongue betraying his irritation. “Pets don’t usually run their mouths this long without permission,” he said lightly, eyes narrowing.
William’s pulse spiked, a bitter taste flooding his mouth. “I’m not your pet,” he snapped.
“Not yet,” Sinister smirked.
Masked’s voice slid in, low and even, carrying an unnerving calm. “We didn’t choose to end up together, but we did choose to keep you—and that’s the only decision that matters.”
“And once we agreed on that,” Mohawk said, raising his glass lazily, “everything else was just logistics.”
A cold weight settled behind William’s ribs. They were talking about him like he was some joint custody dog, passed around between bloodthirsty divorcees. Not a person. Not a prisoner. A possession.
Omni leaned back, settling into the chair as though it were a throne. “You’re lucky,” he said with unhurried certainty. “Some of us lost you. Some never knew you at all.” He raised his wine for a measured sip and placed the glass down with a muted clink. “But now we’re united in this: we want you, each for reasons of our own.” His gaze held William’s, steady and cold. “You’re staying.”
The words landed like a lock sliding shut. William’s pulse spiked; he could hear it drumming in his ears. Every instinct screamed run, but his legs stayed rooted, heavy as iron. He forced a breath through clenched teeth, tasting copper where he’d bitten his cheek. The sentence didn’t just hang in the air—it rearranged it. William’s mind skittered for an exit ramp: the door, the window, anything. But every path ended with eight pairs of eyes and a certainty that none of them would let him leave.
The table went quiet again—almost reverent, like a church after a sermon. The kind of silence that demanded compliance, not peace.
Maskless was the first to speak again. “You need to eat something,” he said gently, as if none of the laughter or threats had happened. “You fainted earlier. That means your blood sugar’s low, or worse. Your body’s trying to shut down.” He turned slightly toward William’s untouched plate. “Do you want something else? I can have something lighter made. Soup. Broth. Something your stomach can handle.”
Before William could think of responding, a mocking tch cut him off.
Mohawk scoffed, dragging his fork across his plate with a high-pitched scrape. “You gonna kiss his little boo-boo next?” he sneered at Maskless. “Jesus--he’s not a fucking baby, dude. He’s a grown-ass man, and if he can’t eat normal food without collapsing, maybe he’s not worth keeping around.”
“He’s worth keeping,” Maskless said evenly, eyes fixed on Mohawk. “Unlike you, he doesn’t need to prove it.”
Mohawk smirked, then turned his grin toward William. “You always this fragile in your world, too, sweetheart? Too sensitive to chew? What was next—bedridden because someone raised their voice at you?”
Sinister chuckled, the sound low and too smooth. “He’s still adjusting. He’s just like a little bruised fruit.”
William’s fingers tightened under the tablecloth until the fabric bit into his skin. Heat flushed across his face, and his heart slammed against his ribs as if it might claw its way out. Run. The word flickered like a spark in his brain—but where? He couldn’t take them all at once; the very idea was absurd. And even if by some miracle he slipped past them, what then?
The streets outside were a graveyard. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen another living human out there, only the echo of doors barricading and the hiss of wind through empty windows. Most people had vanished underground or into scattered survival enclaves—if those even still existed—and he had no map, no contacts, no safe place waiting.
His parents might still be alive, but he hadn’t heard a word from them since the skies first turned red. For all he knew, they were buried under the rubble of a city that no longer had a name. And Rick… The thought stopped him cold, a sudden void opening in his chest. He had no idea if Rick was alive, captured, or just another body lost to this shattered world.
Every path in his mind ended the same way: alone, hunted, and found. The realization sat heavy in his lungs, making each breath feel like dragging air through wet cement.
William’s throat clenched. He had to grit his teeth to hold back the sob building in his chest.
Until the moment he broke into this damn house, William had been surviving day by day on his own. Barely scraping by. He didn’t think he would last much longer. But now… now he wondered if maybe he’d just rushed headfirst into a slower, more terrifying kind of death—one at the hands of these lunatics.
“ …Fine,” he said hoarsely, the word scraped from the back of his throat. “Just…get me something.”
Maskless’s voice softened, a faint spark of anticipation breaking through. “Soup?”
“Whatever,” William snapped, more forcefully this time. “Just… get everyone to stop looking at me like I’m a kicked dog…” or a corpse.
That earned a few more quiet chuckles, but it did the job.
William stayed frozen in place, knuckles white against the wood of the table. Across from him, Target Mark watched with a calm, patient interest.
“You learn fast,” Target noted. “Word of advice: obedience will keep you alive.”
William said nothing, but send him a glare, which got him a chuckle in response.
Maskless gave a warm nod, then turned slightly to address someone at the edge of the room. “Bring him soup,” he said.
A shadow shifted at the doorway, startling William since he didn’t even notice them until now. William’s eyes darted up just in time to see a young man—barefoot, pale, and shaking—bow his head and vanish down the hall without a word.
Wait… was that—?
William’s gut turned. “Who was that?” he asked, his voice betraying the fear tickling in as his eyes stayed glued to the doorway where the man disappeared too.
“Who? The staff?” Prisoner asked, dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin like they were in some five-star hotel instead of a murder house. “Don’t worry about him.”
“No—!” William sat up straighter. “That was a person! A-a human. You—You force people to work for you, like Amber, right? What the hell did you do to Earth exactly?”
A few of the Marks paused mid-motion.
Target snorted, cutting a bloody steak with unnecessary force. “Oh, now he wants to ask questions.”
“You’ve seen enough to guess,” Omni muttered, swishing red wine in his glass. “Why act surprised?”
William looked around the table, jaw clenched. “What did you do?”
There was a pause—brief, but heavy.
Then Viltrum answered, his voice low and eerily casual, “We took it.”
Maked leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Most of the world is gone. We’ve kept the useful parts, of course. Infrastructure, resources, some cities and people.”
“You mean slaves,” William snapped.
Masked tilted his head. “Survivors.”
“Property,” Mohawk said, his grin all teeth. “We taught humans what real authority looked like. Anyone who disagreed…well, they’re gone. We kept a few around for labor—every kingdom needs its servants.”
“…Like Amber, right?” William’s voice was low, bitter, a tremor of anger in it.
Target’s raspy laugh cut through. “Not anymore—thanks to that idiot.” He gestured at Maskless, who didn’t so much as glance his way.
William stayed silent, teeth clenched, fury coiling tighter inside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Prisoner’s burned face shift—just a flicker, a shadow of something he couldn’t name—at Target’s cruel words. It was gone as quickly as it came, swallowed by the hard mask of calm that Prisoner always wore, leaving William unsettled, unsure if he had imagined it.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint clink of a spoon against a bowl being set beside him, until the young man from earlier had returned, silently placing the steaming dish of soup before William without daring to lift his eyes.
Maskless reached over to adjust the spoon, a soft smile on his lips. “Here you go. It’s hot, so be careful. Do you want me to help you?”
William stared at the bowl. The smell was… good, frustratingly good; comforting in a way he didn’t want. His shaky hands didn’t move; he was starting to feel sick again.
“You should eat,” Masked murmured from across the table, expression unreadable. “It won’t do you any good for you to starve.”
“…Fine.” William snatched the spoon from Maskless’s hand, ignoring the amused chuckle the action earned. He didn’t bother to blow on the soup or wait for it to cool. He scooped up a spoonful and shoved it into his mouth.
It was delicious. The flavors exploded on his tongue—rich, warm, layered—after months of eating moldy scraps and cold rations, this was absolutely heavenly.
Maskless smiled again, eyes soft. “Good job, sweetheart.”
William’s hands were shaking.
He stared down at the bowl, the rich scent of the soup turning his stomach now instead of calming it. Around him, the conversation had shifted—quiet murmurs, tones too casual for the horrors they discussed.
“He’s adjusting well,” Viltrum said, reclining in his chair. “I think with the right attention, he’ll settle in nicely.”
“He’s already pretty,” Mohawk added, licking red off his fork. “We should give him to one of us. Permanently.”
“He’s not a pet,” Masked said coolly.
“Then he’s a trophy,” Target muttered with a roll of his eyes. “Why argue?”
William’s breath hitched. “You can’t just—talk about me like that.”
None of them reacted. Not really.
“Maybe you should keep him,” Viltrum motioned towards Maskless. “You seems to have a way with the softer ones.”
William’s jaw clenched, his hand clenching the spoon tightly in his hands. “Stop…”
“Think about it,” Target said, voice like a knife. “He’ll teach William his place—and he won’t even raise his voice to do it.”
“Stop.” William shot to his feet, fists trembling so hard they ached. “I’m not yours. I’m not a thing. I’m not some broken little toy!”
Still nothing. Just that eerie calm that finally made him snap--William’s rage shattered into motion.
His vision tunneled red. He snatched the nearest glass—dark wine, nearly full—and hurled it across the table with a savage twist of his wrist. He didn’t care who it hit. He just wanted the sound of breaking, the splatter of something bleeding.
The wine spun through the air like a ribbon of blood and shattered against Target’s face.
Target could’ve dodged; they all could’ve. They were faster than bullets. But he stayed perfectly still, as if he’d been waiting for it, letting the wine explode across his jaw and soak the regal collar of his suit. Drops slid down his skin like slow-moving wounds.
He blinked the red from his lashes and smiled—lazy, taunting, the smile of someone who’d just gotten exactly what he wanted.
The room fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. Every conversation died mid-sentence, the air thick with unspoken alarm. William could hear the rush of blood in his ears—it was that quiet.
Then, cutting through the stillness like a knife, Mohawk let out a loud, barking laugh that echoed off the walls.
“Ha,” he barked, dragging his thumb across his mouth to catch the wine. “Guess our pretty boy bites after all.”
William didn’t stop. He flung the soup next—bowl and all. It smashed on the floor by Mohawk’s boots. Mohawk didn’t even twitch; his grin only widened. A sudden shift from Omni made William flinch, but Omni simply raised one steady hand.
“Enough,” he said, calm as ever. “He’s clearly upset. But tantrums must have consequences.”
William’s pulse pounded, sending a scathing glare towards Omni. “Don’t patronize me!”
“You forget where you are,” Omni replied, rising with deliberate slowness. “You’re in no position to make demands.”
“He needs punishment,” Mohawk smirked. “Real punishment. That little bitch slap earlier did nothing.”
“No,” Maskless cut in, voice like a blade.
Masked gave a low grunt of agreement. “There are other ways.”
William didn’t notice the subtle glances being exchanged around the table—quick flicks of the eyes, slight tilts of the head. A silent conversation passed between the Marks like a current, ending with an unspoken consensus as every gaze landed on Maskless. Maskless seemed to understand and gave a single, deliberate nod.
Before William could breathe, Maskless’s hand shot out and clamped around his wrist.
William jolted at the sudden contact, his breath catching. “H-Hey!” he stammered, but the protest died in his throat as Maskless yanked him forward with effortless strength.
He landed awkwardly in Maskless’s lap—the chair beneath them now occupied by the very Mark William had been sitting across from. The others watched with quiet interest, their expressions gleaming with expectation and excitement.
“What—what are you doing?!” William shrieked as Maskless wrapped a firm arm around his torso, pinning both of his wrists tightly against his chest and leaving him utterly trapped.
Not that it would’ve made a difference against the kind of strength Maskless wielded, godlike and unbreakable. William thrashed instinctively, panic spiking in his chest, but it was like trying to move against stone. Maskless didn’t even flinch.
Instead, the variant only held him tighter, his voice soft and patient—disarmingly so.
“Shh,” Maskless cooed against the side of William’s head, as if soothing a frightened animal. “You’re making such a fuss. You don’t need to be scared. I’d never hurt you.”
His gloved hand rose slowly, brushing a few strands of hair away from William’s flushed face with a tenderness that made William’s skin crawl. That eerie calm in Maskless’s voice—it was like he truly believed this was kindness.
“This is for your own good,” he murmured, fingers tracing down the side of William’s jaw. “I get it, you’ve been overwhelmed, so we don’t blame you for acting out. You just need a little correction… a little reminder of where you belong, okay?”
William paused for a moment, confused to what Maskless and the others had planned for him. He didn’t have to wait much longer as Maskless’s hand dropped from his hair, gliding down his neck and torso, stopping right above the waistband of the loose sweatpants he was wearing.
“W-wait…” William’s eyes widen, his heart dropping when he felt Maskless fingers push through his pants and boxers, his hand cupping his member. The sudden contact made him tense up immediately, his breathing hitched as Maskless started to rub against it.
“N-no, stop!” William choked out, trying to uselessly thrash in his capture’s arms. “F-fuck! Stop it!”
Maskless leaned in closer, his breath hot against William’s ear. “Shh, it alright. You just need to relax. Let me take care of you.”
William’s mind raced, a mix of confusion and fear coursing through him as he felt Maskless’s grip tighten, the rubbing becoming more insistent. His body betrayed him, responding despite his protests, and he felt a wave of humiliation wash over him.
The room seemed to spin as William’s senses overwhelmed him. The scent of Maskless’s cologne—sharp, dark, inescapable—mixed with the faint tang of wine and the underlying musk of the others, pressing in on him from every side. The rough texture of the glove against his sensitive skin, the unyielding strength holding him in place, and the subtle but deliberate pressure of Maskless’s body left him uncomfortably aware of every inch of himself.
William could feel the others’ eyes on him, heavy and unblinking, their silent anticipation almost tangible. Every flicker of movement, every suppressed smirk, seemed to spotlight his helplessness. His heart hammered in his chest, ears ringing, and he felt small, ridiculous, entirely exposed—like a performance staged just for their amusement. Even the small, involuntary noises he made—a sharp inhale felt deafening in the thick silence, echoing around the room, as though announcing his humiliation to all of them. He clenched his eyes shut and bowed his head in a pathetic attempt to hide from the eyes, but even in retreat, he could feel their gaze burning into him, reminding him that there was nowhere to escape and no one to protect him
William trembled in his grip, chest heaving, voice hitching painfully in his throat. “S-stop… please… just—let me go—” Tears stung the corners of his eyes as a horrifying realization clawed at him: despite himself, the overwhelming pleasure was rising faster and faster, dragging him closer and closer to the edge.
The plea only made Maskless hum thoughtfully, like he was considering it seriously. But his hold never loosened. Instead, his fingers slowly stroked William’s cock—using his thumb to circle the warm tip in tiny firm circles. Smearing his thumb with the pre-cum leaking out, Maskless skillfully stroke it on the underside of the head, toying with the sensitive skin there.
William couldn’t help but throw his head back against Maskless shoulder, the shock of pleasure shot through his entire body. His back arched involuntarily, pressing him closer in Maskless, betraying his body’s response despite his mind’s protests.
“Oh?” Maskless hummed, planting an open mouth kissed on William’s exposed neck. “Your sensitive spots are exactly like my William’s…that’s good to know.”
“N-no…” William moaned, a mix of protest and surrender. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, fighting an internal battle between surrendering and letting go and fight against it. “A-ahhh!”
Maskless chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against William’s neck. “You’re so responsive.” He murmured, his voice a low purr. “It’s almost a shame I have to share you with the others.”
The implication hung heavy in the air, a promise of more to come, to further humiliation and pleasure. William’s mind raced, trying to process the sheer audacity of Maskless’s words, the casual way he spoke of sharing him, of using him for their sick amusement. It was a cruel reminder of his powerlessness; of the control they all held over him.
“Please…” William whimpered, his voice barely audible, as tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down his cheeks. “Please, I-I can’t--!”
“No, no. You’re safest right here,” he whispered. “You just forgot. But don’t worry. We’ll help you remember.”
Behind them, the other Marks watched silently—some curious, some amused, some leaning forward with disturbing interest. Not one intervened.
Not one disagreed.
William averted his gaze, unable to bear the weight of the other seven Marks’ stares. Their attention was a physical force, pressing down on him, making his skin crawl with humiliation. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could block out the world, but their voices still reached him, sharp and cruel.
“Aww, c’mon man! Shove his pants off all the way, I wanna see!”
“He’s so pathetic,” William can hear another one sneer. “Look at him, begging and pleading so much…it’s almost cute.”
“Cute? He’s a toy, nothing more. And we’re going to play with him until he breaks.”
Their words cut through him like knives, each one a fresh wound to his already shattered pride. William’s mind raced, a chaotic mix of fear, shame, and a traitorous spark of pleasure that only served to heighten his confusion and despair, unable to escape the relentless onslaught of Maskless’s touch and the others’ watchful gazes.
Maskless’s fingers continued their torment and teasing, drawing out William’s pleasure despite his protests. The man’s touch was both gentle and firm, a cruel paradox that only served to heighten William’s confusion and despair.
“Please…” William begged again, his voice mixed with desperation and pleasure. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want…j-just let me go--!”
But Maskless showed no sign of stopping, his touch becoming more insistent, more demanding. The room seemed to spin as William’s sense overwhelmed him.
With a final, shattering wave of pleasure, William’s body convulsed, his release spilling over Maskless’s awaiting hand. Hunching forward as much as he could in Maskless’s arms of course, William slightly heaved, his body trembling from the aftermath of such an intense orgasm.
The other Marks cheered and jeered, their voices a cruel symphony of his humiliation. Every motion—the closeness, the soft tone, the silent, predatory gazes—made him feel stripped bare, utterly vulnerable, like a mouse cornered by cats.
“You can cry if you need too,” Maskless whispered, noticing his watery eyes. “It’s okay…”
William shoved him back with a gasp. Maskless let him break free from his hold, and William stumbled away on shaky legs, his body still quivering and heart hammering from the ordeal.
Target’s wine-streaked smile returned, a chilling sight. “Lesson learned?” He gestured to the other seven Marks around the table. “Next time, it might just be one of us who will punish you if you don’t behave.”
A shiver ran down William’s spine. The laughter and whispers faded into a suffocating echo in his mind, leaving only one thought: he was surrounded, exposed, and utterly at their mercy—and there was no escaping what came next.
Notes:
Hello everyone!
First off, I am so sorry for the wait on this chapter! I’ve been feeling a little burned out creatively lately and just wasn’t in the headspace to write like I usually do. I know I used to post weekly or bi-weekly, so I really appreciate your patience.
I’m super excited to finally share this chapter with you! It’s definitely darker than what I’ve done before, but I had a lot of fun exploring it, and I hope you enjoy it too!
I also can’t thank you enough for all your comments, support, and excitement for this story. Honestly, I never expected so many people to enjoy my work, and it means so much to me. You all keep me motivated to keep writing, and I’m beyond grateful for that.
Thanks again for sticking around, I hope you like this chapter, and I can’t wait to keep going with the next one!
Oh! And a kind reader pointed out a major mistake on my end so let me clarify! In my head, I separated two Mark variants when I was drafting up the story and completely forgot to change the name. I named this variant as Emperor Mark when he was cannonly titled Target Mark lol So just to clarify:
Target Mark is Emperor Mark!
So I will be addressing him as Target from now on. Sorry for the confusion.,,too many Marks to keep accounted for 😅
Thank you, and happy reading!
~ Cindy
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