The echo of Hulk's roar still thundered through the warehouse, bouncing off rusted steel beams like a war drum. Dust rained from the ceiling, sprinkling across Alex's shoulders as he stood his ground, unwavering.
Hulk's fist still pressed into the fractured floor, his knuckles embedded in broken concrete. The emerald titan's chest rose and fell in heaving waves, breath hot, ragged, and wild. His teeth ground together as if holding back something even heavier than his rage.
Alex didn't move. He didn't retreat. He only straightened, brushing blood from his lip with the back of his hand, and spoke low but sharp, each word like a needle threading into Hulk's fury.
"You said it. 'Hulk smash.' That's what they taught you, isn't it? That you're nothing but fists. Nothing but destruction."
He stepped closer, boots grinding against fractured concrete.
"But I don't believe that. And neither does Bruce."
Hulk's eyes flickered, the green fire still blazing, but a shadow of hesitation trembled beneath it. He growled deep, low, almost uncertain. His jaw clenched harder, as though a thousand unspoken words were chained behind his teeth.
"You're more than a weapon," Alex pressed, circling slowly, keeping Hulk's gaze locked. "I've seen it. The way you fight—not just to kill, but to survive. To protect. You think no one sees that. But I do. And Bruce does too."
"NO!" Hulk's voice ripped free suddenly, deeper and rawer than any roar. His fists slammed the ground again, sending shockwaves that rattled the rafters overhead. The floor split further, dust exploding upward in a choking cloud.
"Hulk… not Bruce!"
The warehouse seemed to hold its breath.
Alex didn't flinch at the declaration. He let the words hang, heavy, then stepped forward through the haze, his crimson eyes glowing faintly through the dust.
"Not Bruce?" he said quietly. "Then tell me—who are you?"
Hulk's breathing faltered, just slightly. His massive form trembled, every muscle straining as if holding back a storm. His lips parted again, but what came out wasn't the simple, guttural certainty of "smash." It was jagged, broken, like a wall cracking under pressure.
"Hulk is… strong." His voice rumbled, deep and shaking. "Hulk… fight. Hulk… live."
Alex's faint smile curved—not mocking, but approving, almost proud.
"There it is. Not just fists. Not just rage. A voice. Your voice."
Hulk staggered back half a step, shaking his head violently as though trying to crush the thought before it rooted deeper. His roar came again, but now it was uneven, less fury and more desperation.
"Hulk… no words! Only smash!! Only… only…" His voice cracked mid-bellow, echo fading into something rawer. His glowing eyes flickered, rage warring with something buried beneath—fear.
Alex didn't press with fists this time. He lowered his stance, relaxing the iron grip in his posture, speaking with the same calm steel he had shown throughout the fight.
"You're scared. Not of me. Not of them. Of what happens if you're not smashing. If you're not the monster they all said you were."
Hulk's growl caught in his throat. His fists trembled. His gaze darted away, as though even looking at Alex was too much.
"You think if you stop being rage, there'll be nothing left," Alex continued, his voice steady, deliberate. "But listen to me, Hulk. You're wrong. You are more. You're the part of Bruce that survived when no one else could. You're his strength. His shield. His roar when his voice failed."
The words hammered harder than fists. Hulk staggered, his massive shoulders shuddering. His jaw clenched, unclenched, his breath catching in deep, uneven growls.
Finally, he forced sound out, heavy and raw.
"Hulk… not monster?"
Alex's crimson eyes softened, though his tone never lost its firmness.
"No. You're not a monster. You're the proof Bruce was never weak."
The titan froze. His breathing slowed, not calm, but shifting—like a beast pulling back from the brink of a cliff. His fists loosened slightly, nails no longer carving trenches in his palms.
For a long moment, silence filled the broken warehouse, broken only by the faint groans of settling steel. Hulk's eyes dimmed slightly, the emerald glow softening, uncertain.
Alex straightened fully, his presence still steady, commanding but no longer confrontational. He kept his hands lowered, not raised to strike.
"You don't have to fight me. You don't even have to fight Bruce. You both just need to stop fighting each other."
Hulk's throat rumbled, low, conflicted. His lips parted again, and for the first time his voice carried something other than fury—something fractured, almost childlike.
"Hulk… tired."
The words crashed heavier than any blow.
Alex stepped forward, placing his hand firmly but calmly on Hulk's massive forearm. "Then stop running. Stop smashing just because they expect it. Be what you are—not what they fear."
Hulk's head lowered, his shoulders slumping like the weight of the world had finally pressed too hard against him. The tremor in his chest wasn't just rage anymore—it was the shudder of something breaking open inside.
For the first time, the warehouse went quiet.
Alex held steady, crimson gaze never leaving Hulk's as the emerald titan wrestled with himself. He didn't press further, didn't rush. He simply waited—knowing this battle wasn't fists anymore, but walls crumbling from within.
And for the first time in a long time, Hulk's roar didn't come.
Only silence.
The silence lingered like a heavy curtain. Hulk's massive frame trembled, shoulders heaving as his fists slowly unclenched. His growls softened into uneven breaths, and then—like a storm breaking apart—his body began to shrink.
Muscles receded. Emerald skin faded to pale. The titan's towering silhouette collapsed inward until, kneeling in the cracked floor where Hulk had been, Bruce Banner gasped for air. His chest rose and fell, his hands shaking as though they still carried echoes of the fight.
He blinked, eyes dazed, but clear now—human again. He looked up at Alex, voice hoarse, tired, but edged with wary curiosity.
"…So… how did it go?"
Alex's lips curved into a faint smile, brushing dust from his sleeve. His crimson eyes dimmed back to calm embers as he extended a hand to help Bruce up.
"Well," he said, almost lightly, "it went better than I expected."
Bruce gave a breathless laugh, half relief, half disbelief, taking Alex's hand as he staggered to his feet. His gaze flicked toward the wreckage—the shattered floor, the splintered crates, the cracked beams overhead.
"Better? You call this better?"
Alex chuckled, steadying him. "Considering you didn't tear down the whole city block… yeah. I'll take it."
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