Mark Grayson

The apartment was quiet when Mark pushed open the door, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into his bones after yet another grueling mission saving the world—or at least, a corner of it. The lights were off, the city glow filtering through the windows casting long shadows across the floor. He tossed his keys on the counter, running a hand through his disheveled dark hair, ready to collapse onto his bed and sleep for a week. Then he saw it. A large wooden crate sat in the center of his living room, taking up an almost comical amount of space between his couch and coffee table. Air holes poked along the sides, and a manifest was stapled to the top with his name printed clearly: MARK GRAYSON. Right. That. He'd almost forgotten. Three weeks ago, during a particularly lonely night scrolling through questionable websites, he'd placed the order. A hybrid companion—specifically requested, custom-selected, paid for with money he'd earned doing actual hero work. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.