Mark didn't wait to hear applause.
He slipped out the back stairwell just as medics rushed in through the front. The air outside hit him cold and sharp—sirens, shouting, radios crackling all at once.
"Hey—HEY!" a cop shouted.
Too late.
Mark bolted.
His feet barely touched the asphalt before he was already climbing—hands biting into brick, muscles snapping tight as he vaulted onto the first rooftop.
"Suspect on foot!"
"He's going up—what the hell?"
Boots thundered below. Flashlights cut through the dark.
Mark ran.
Not like a human—fast, light, reckless. Rooftops blurred beneath him as he jumped alleys that should've broken legs. A bullet cracked past his shoulder. He didn't even look back.
Idiot, he thought. I stayed too long.
His phone vibrated once in his pocket.
He answered without slowing.
"Where are you?" Simon's voice came through—tight, panicked.
"Third Street. Near the old parking complex."
A pause.
"…you're kidding."
"No," Mark said. "Drive."
Below, a black BMW M4 screamed around a corner far too fast for civilian traffic.
Simon's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
"I am SO dead," he kept muttering. "This is Sam's car. Sam is going to kill me. The cops are going to kill me. My mom is going to resurrect me just to kill me again—"
"Simon," Iris snapped, gripping the door handle, "eyes on the road."
"I AM TRYING."
She leaned forward, scanning the rooftops.
Then she saw him.
"THERE!" she shouted, pointing up. "MARK!"
Simon glanced up for half a second—and nearly swerved into a parked car.
"Oh hell NO."
He hit a button.
The roof slid open.
"You have GOT to be kidding me!" Iris yelled.
Mark didn't slow.
He sprinted to the edge, calculated once, and jumped.
For one suspended second, Simon saw him silhouetted against streetlights—coat flaring, eyes locked—
Then Mark slammed down in the roof, metal groaning under the impact. Missed landing into the backseat of the car.
"GO!" Mark shouted.
Simon floored it.
The engine roared. Tires screamed. The BMW shot forward just as cops burst out onto the street.
"What the—STOP THAT VEHICLE!"
Too late.
Mark dropped through the open roof into the back seat, breathing hard, pulse hammering like a war drum.
Iris twisted around, eyes wide—not scared, not screaming—just stunned.
"You're insane," she said.
Mark laughed once. Short. Sharp. Almost hysterical.
Simon was not laughing.
"Oh my God," he said, voice cracking. "Oh my GOD. There are COPS. I'm underage. This car is stolen—technically—it's my BROTHER'S—"
"Simon," Iris said calmly, "if you crash, I will kill you myself."
That somehow made him focus.
Mark leaned forward between the seats, lowering his voice.
"Take the long way. Lose the lights."
Simon swallowed.
"…You better be worth this."
Mark looked out the rear window—sirens fading, city stretching ahead.
"I am," he said quietl
The BMW finally settled into a steadier speed, city noise dulling into a distant hum.
Mark exhaled and leaned back, then suddenly leaned forward again.
"Simon," he said, "you did bring the change of clothes… right?"
Simon didn't even look at him.
"Yeah. I did. Along with my brother's car—without permission—for you."
Mark smirked.
"Wow. My knight in shining armor."
"Do not call me that," Simon snapped. "I'm having heart palpitations."
Mark reached up and tapped the roof.
"Close it."
"What? Why?"
"I'm changing. Right now."
Simon nearly slammed the brakes.
"Are you out of your mind? Change here?"
The roof slid shut anyway.
Mark was already pulling off his jacket.
"I told my mom I'm coming home," he said casually. "My dad saw me in those clothes. I'm not letting my family figure out I was the Batman today who saved them."
Simon groaned.
"Great. Vigilante with mommy issues."
Iris didn't say anything at first.
She tried not to look.
She failed.
Mark turned slightly as he changed, and for a second the streetlight caught him fully—broad shoulders, lean muscle, a body built by survival, not a gym.
Her face turned bright red.
Then she saw the rest.
Cuts.
Bite marks.
Dark bruises blooming under skin.
Faded bullet grazes—some old, some frighteningly recent.
Her breath hitched.
"Mark…" she said quietly.
He paused, glancing at her.
"Do those still hurt?"
He looked down at himself like he was seeing it for the first time.
"…They don't," he said after a moment. "Not anymore."
That answer bothered her more than if he'd said yes.
Simon caught the silence through the rearview mirror.
"…I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
Mark finished changing, pulled on a clean hoodie, and sank back into the seat.
For a few seconds, none of them spoke.
The car kept moving.
Seattle lights slid past the windows.
And for the first time since the bank, Mark felt the weight of what he'd done settle into his bones.
The BMW cut through the city, engine humming low, headlights slicing empty streets.
Mark had just finished pulling his hoodie on when his phone vibrated.
Mom.
He froze.
Simon glanced at him. "You gonna answer that?"
Mark swallowed and picked up.
"Hey, mom."
"Where are you?" Her voice was sharp—controlled anger, the kind that comes from fear trying not to spill.
"I'm… on the way home," he said carefully. "I'm in Simon's car."
A pause.
Then—
"Don't come home," she said. "Come to the bank."
Mark straightened.
"…What?"
"They released the hostages," she said. "I'm going to get your father. I don't want him coming home alone."
Mark closed his eyes.
"Okay," he said. "I'm coming."
The call ended.
For a second, the car was silent.
Then Simon spoke. "That's… a problem."
Mark nodded. "Yeah."
Iris turned toward him. "You can't go back there in this car."
"No," Mark agreed. "Cops saw this BMW. If they connect it—"
"They'll connect you," Simon finished. His hands tightened on the wheel. "And me. And my brother."
Mark looked out the window.
They were close now. Too close.
"Pull over," Mark said.
Simon frowned. "What?"
"Highway exit. Right there."
Simon hesitated. "Mark—"
"I'll go on foot," he said. "I just need to be present. Not suspicious."
Iris's voice was calm, but serious. "You're injured."
"I heal," he replied. "You don't."
Simon exhaled sharply and signaled.
The car rolled to the side of the highway.
Mark opened the door, cold air rushing in.
He paused, looking back at them.
"Thank you," he said. "Both of you."
Simon forced a grin. "Yeah, well. If you get caught, I'm denying everything."
Mark smirked. "Fair."
Iris held his gaze a second longer. "Be careful."
He nodded.
Then he stepped out, closed the door, and disappeared into the darkness.
The BMW merged back into traffic.
Mark adjusted his hoodie, pulled it low, and started sprinting.
Toward the bank.
Toward his family.
Mark cut through the crowd, breath still uneven when he saw her.
Lucy Swinton was just stepping out of the car.
"Mark?" She turned sharply. "You're already here?"
"Yeah," he said, forcing his breathing to slow. "I was nearby. My friends dropped me off and had to leave—something urgent came up."
She studied him for half a second, like a mother always does.
Then she nodded. "Good."
Before she could say anything else, they saw him.
Ethan Swinton was sitting on the curb, a blanket around his shoulders, talking to an officer. His tie was loosened, hair a mess—but he was alive.
Lucy didn't wait.
She ran.
"Ethan!"
He looked up, startled—and then smiled when he saw her.
She wrapped her arms around him and broke, sobbing openly now, holding him like she was afraid he'd vanish.
"Oh, Lucy, my dear," Ethan said softly, patting her back. "Don't cry. Look at me. I'm fine."
Mark reached them a moment later.
Ethan looked past Lucy and saw him.
"Hey," he said, relieved. "You made it."
Mark nodded. "Yeah."
For a second, the three of them just stood there—shaken, exhausted, together.
Lucy wiped her face, still holding Ethan's arm.
"Let's go home," she said. "All of us."