I Am A Visual Learner

The bank lobby had descended into chaos.

Masked gunmen shouted over each other, pushing civilians into a tight corner, rifles raised in trembling hands. A security guard lay crumpled near the vault, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle.

Mark stood, barely breathing, hands shaking at his sides. Blood dripped from his knuckles—someone's blood, but he couldn't remember whose. His eyes darted around the room, and the chaos seemed to slow, but it wasn't enough to quiet the frantic pulse in his ears. The walls felt too close. The screams too loud.

The lead robber, thin and frantic, aimed a shotgun at a woman in the corner. Her eyes were wide with terror, lips trembling as she pressed herself against the cold marble.

"You move, the bitch dies!" he snarled.

Mark didn't think. He moved.

He grabbed the robber's arm, twisting it away from the woman. But his fist collided with the man's chest, and the sickening crack echoed in the silence that followed. The robber's body crumpled, folding against the counter like a ragdoll.

Mark's heart pounded. His hands were still shaking, too much force—he'd used too much force. His breath came quick and shallow. The blood—so much blood—coated his palms. His fingers trembled.

Another shot rang out.

The bullet hit his shoulder, but it was nothing. Just a sting. He barely felt it. He spun, grabbing the shooter by the arm, the bones crunching under his grip. The man screamed, eyes wide with terror as his weapon fell from his hands, useless.

Mark let go, the man crumpling in a heap. He was still breathing, still alive—but the sound of the bones breaking, that was too much. It was always too much. The blood, the blood on his hands.

Then the wall exploded.

Debris flew in every direction. A massive figure barreled through the dust and rubble. Elephant. His hulking body was a mountain of muscle, gray skin glistening under the fluorescent lights, his massive fists stained with blood.

"Meat-eating scum!" he roared, his voice thick with fury, his eyes ablaze with madness. "Balance will be restored. Your balance will be destroyed!"

He swung his arm with terrifying speed, and Mark's instincts screamed. He ducked, rolling under the punch, the force so powerful it sent a nearby pillar crumbling to the ground. He was fast—faster than Elephant could follow.

The building trembled. The walls shook.

Elephant didn't stop. He didn't care about Mark. He cared about destruction. He turned, his fist like a sledgehammer, smashing into a woman as she tried to flee. Her body crumpled against the wall with a sickening crack. The air left her in a single, strangled gasp, and blood splattered across the lobby, pooling at her feet.

Mark froze.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe.

The blood. The body.

Another swing. Elephant turned to a man standing nearby, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him into the air. The man's legs kicked frantically as his face turned blue, and Elephant squeezed tighter, tightening his grip.

Mark's pulse raced. He couldn't think. Not now. Not again. He had to stop this.

Elephant hurled the man into a row of ATMs. The machines shattered on impact, the man's body slamming into them like a ragdoll, his head lolling unnaturally to the side.

A woman screamed from across the room, her voice high-pitched and desperate.

Mark surged forward. His body moved on pure reflex.

He ducked under another wild strike, the wind from Elephant's fist tearing at his clothes, and landed a punch to the villain's midsection. The impact should've sent him flying, but the moment his fist connected, Mark felt something snap. Something inside Elephant.

The villain's chest caved in, his breath coming out in a wet, gasping wheeze as Mark's hand tore through his flesh. The sickening crack of bones breaking was louder than anything else in the room.

Elephant's eyes widened with shock, then narrowed in disbelief as he tried to move away, but it was too late. His body buckled inward, the blood spilling from his torn chest as his mouth gurgled, choking on the air he couldn't breathe.

Mark's hand was still buried deep inside, and the blood soaked his arm, dripping to the floor in dark pools. He didn't pull away. Didn't stop.

Elephant let out a final, strangled rasp, his body twitching once before going limp in Mark's grip.

The building was quiet for a moment, save for the distant wail of sirens. Mark stood there, his arm deep in Elephant's chest, staring at the blood dripping from his hands.

The blood.

He froze.

The screams. The snap of bones. The thud of bodies hitting the ground.

He had killed again.

The words swirled in his mind, but they didn't come. The faces, the screams—they didn't stop. The weight of it crushed him, a pressure he couldn't shake.

But the blood, the blood was there. It always was.

Mark let go. His hand pulled free from the broken body of Elephant, and his legs buckled beneath him. He sank to his knees, staring at the corpse before him. His mind buzzed with the panic, the shame, the horror. But all he could hear was the sound of his own breath—ragged, uneven, as if it belonged to someone else.

The blood. It soaked his hands. Again.

---

William tossed a pile of dirty clothes onto the floor with a frustrated sigh. "This has gotta go," he muttered, quickly tossing more items out of sight. "Hide this," he added, glancing around the room and continuing his mission to tidy up.

Mark, confused by the urgency, protested. "What? Stop!"

"I'm not talking about the comics," William shot back. "I'm talking about the dirty clothes, the dishes, the tissues." He pointed around the room, pointing out the mess. "You thought she liked comics? Well, maybe Amber likes comics, but she won't be impressed by all this."

"Uh... better," Mark said, looking at the room and feeling a little more relieved as it started to look more presentable.

"Okay, I brought you some homework," William said, handing Mark a stack of books. "A little Naomi Klein, a touch of Margaret Atwood, some Ta-Nehisi Coates."

Mark stared at the books in confusion. "I haven't read any of those."

William shot him a knowing look. "But she has, so get started. It'll show Amber you're interested in what she likes."

Mark sighed, feeling overwhelmed. "Okay... She's also into spicy foods, stand-up comedy, and fourth-wave feminism."

"What?" Mark asked, not fully understanding.

"I read her file," William explained, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "I asked around at school."

"It's just a study date, not a first date," Mark quipped. "Ya dick."

William grinned mischievously. "I'm not talking about the comics. I'm talking about learning her interests. Every date should feel like a first date."

Before Mark could protest, the doorbell rang.

"Mark! Your friend is here!" Debbie called from downstairs.

"Go! Out the back way," Mark quickly instructed. "You can thank me later when you call me and tell me exactly how it went."

William scrambled out the back door, and Amber arrived at the house a moment later.

"Hi, Mrs. Grayson. I'm Amber," she said as she stepped in.

As Amber walked up the stairs to Mark's room, she noticed a few framed pictures hanging along the hallway. One caught her eye—a young Mark standing proudly on a podium, a shiny gymnastics medal around his neck. His face was flushed, a look of both pride and awkwardness. Another photo showed him in mid-air, attempting a flip, his concentration intense but clearly outmatched by his form.

She paused for a moment, unable to hide a small smile. "Mark, really?" she muttered under her breath, shaking her head with amusement as she continued down the hallway toward his room.

"William said I should read it to show you I'm interested," Mark said trying to act casual, holding up one of the books.

Mark, feeling a bit lost, scratched his head. "Interesting... and I will, but this is more me." He lifted up a comic book.

"An honest man." Amber smiled. "I like that."

"So, you're into comics?" Mark asked, eager to find some common ground.

"Is it that obvious?" Amber chuckled, amused at how quickly he'd noticed.

The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. She's into comics. That's good, he thought, trying to latch onto something normal. Something real.

But the thoughts wouldn't stay away. The morning—Elephant, the violence, the impact. His muscles still ached from the fight, the weight of the blows too heavy to shake off. The sound of fists colliding with flesh, the crack of bone, the chaos—it doesn't leave you, he thought, tightening his grip on the armrest. The adrenaline hadn't faded yet. It kept pulsing, a distant echo in his veins.

His hand subconsciously rubbed over his palm, the sensation of it still sharp, as if the blood hadn't fully washed off. He exhaled slowly, trying to push the memory back, to settle into the moment. Amber was here. Focus, Mark. She's here.

"What's your favorite?" he asked, forcing himself back into the conversation.

Amber's eyes sparkled with a playful glint. "Green Ghost," she said, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

Mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Green Ghost? Why her?"

Amber paused for a moment, looking out the window, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup as though she was gathering her thoughts. Mark shifted slightly, suddenly feeling the weight of his own question. He remembered the way Elephant's hulking body had felt under his fists, the pressure of knowing that even the slightest mistake could have made things worse. His own role in the destruction, in the chaos. Is that what she meant by control and chaos? he wondered.

"Her power set," Amber said softly, her gaze steady now. "The way she manipulates her density—it's... elegant, you know? Phasing through walls, then solidifying to smash through everything. There's a grace to it, like she's always in control, always one step ahead."

Mark nodded slowly, appreciating her insight. He couldn't help but think about what it meant to be in control—and how, in the morning's fight, control had been so easily lost. "I get it. She's never trapped by the usual limits."

"Exactly," Amber said, her voice quiet but firm. "Control and chaos. Perfect balance."

Mark studied her, sensing there was something more to her words. There was a quiet strength in her, something calm and grounded that made him want to dig deeper. He thought about the responsibility that weighed on him after the fight, how the morning's events had forced him to confront his own actions, his own sense of duty. It felt different when you had that kind of power, the kind that could change the world in an instant.

"Do you ever think about... the weight of all that responsibility?" Mark asked before he could stop himself, his voice softer than he intended. He wasn't sure why he asked, but the question hung in the air like an unspoken truth.

Amber met his gaze, her eyes calm but intense. She didn't flinch. "Responsibility is a part of it," she said, her voice steady. "It's not about being perfect. It's about knowing that you can do something—and knowing that you should. There are too many people out there who can help, and the ones who can't... well, they need us to do it for them."

Mark felt a pang of understanding. Her words resonated with something deep inside him, something he hadn't been able to put into words. Maybe she's right. Maybe it's not about being perfect... maybe it's about doing what you can. The morning's fight felt distant now, as though the adrenaline was slowly draining from his veins, leaving behind only the quiet weight of Amber's words.

"So, do you think that's what makes a hero?" Mark asked, his voice quieter now.

Amber paused, her expression thoughtful. "I think it's about knowing that you can make a difference. And doing it, even when it's hard."

Her words were like a balm, soothing the lingering tension in Mark's chest. He nodded slowly, grateful for the clarity she brought him. For the first time that day, he felt the edges of his own responsibility becoming a little more manageable.

Mark picked up the comics on his desk, breaking the silence. "But this one's about a guy who's an underwater welder and starts seeing ghosts at the bottom of the ocean. And this one is about a Jack Russell terrier who's a master of metaphysical arts."

Mark's eyes widened in surprise. "Seance Dog? Cool."

"Mind if I borrow it? Just to show you I'm interested," Amber asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mark smiled, finally starting to feel comfortable. "Yeah, absolutely."

The conversation shifted effortlessly, and despite the residual tension of the morning, Mark couldn't help but feel a sense of ease slowly settling in. Amber's presence, her insight, and her calm energy seemed to neutralize the storm that had brewed inside him since the fight. For the first time in a while, it felt like the world had come back into balance.

--- 

Amber watched Mark carefully, the slight shift in his posture telling her everything she needed to know. He was trying to stay in control, trying to remain grounded in the conversation, but she could see the way his mind kept drifting. To what? She wasn't sure, but the tension between them was palpable, thick enough that she could almost taste it.

"I never really got anatomy class," he said with a light laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to shake off whatever thoughts were lingering there. "I think I'm more of a visual learner."

Amber smirked, her eyes narrowing playfully as she leaned in a fraction. She was getting a sense of how he ticked, and she was enjoying the challenge. "Oh, really?" she teased, letting her voice drop lower, just enough for him to notice. "You learn better when you see it for yourself?"

Mark's breath caught for a split second. She could tell he wasn't expecting that. His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened, just enough for her to feel like she was getting under his skin. The nervousness was there, the hesitation in the way he shifted his weight, but there was also something else—something raw.

Her gaze dropped briefly to his lips, the urge to close the distance between them almost too strong to ignore. She kept him on edge, not letting him hide behind his usual confident smile. He wasn't as cool under pressure as he wanted to be.

"Something like that," he muttered, his voice quieter now. The tension was growing, thickening between them like a thread pulling them closer and closer with each passing second.

Amber wasn't one to play games for long. She closed the space between them, shifting in her seat just enough so she could lean toward him. The faintest brush of her fingers against his arm sent a jolt through her own system. His muscles stiffened, and the heat between them became impossible to ignore.

She kissed him, hard and urgent, pulling him in as if the moment had been waiting to snap for a long time. The second their lips met, she felt his big hands on her, his fingers curling around her waist, solid and strong. His hands were huge—rough, calloused palms sliding up her back like he wanted to hold her in place. His grip was gentle but firm, like he could crush her without even trying. She let out a breath, feeling the heat of his touch, the raw power he was barely containing.

Her own hands moved to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, each thud sending a rush through her veins. He was solid, his muscles tight under her fingertips, his body a wall she couldn't quite push against. She kissed him harder, her hands slipping beneath his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his torso, the way his skin heated at her touch.

His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, closer, until she could feel every inch of him pressed against her. The sensation of him—so big, so powerful, so alive—took her breath away. The force of his hands on her body made her feel small, but not in a way that frightened her. It was the kind of power that made her want to get lost in him. 

Amber kissed him again, a little harder this time, her hands finding the firm planes of his chest as she felt his body respond. She could feel the tension in him, like he was holding back, but it only made the moment more intense. His grip was powerful—his hands calloused, yet somehow delicate as he traced the curve of her back. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the strength barely contained beneath his touch.

His lips moved with hers, slow and deliberate, then suddenly urgent, as if he'd been holding back for too long. Amber felt herself melting against him, her heart pounding in her chest. His kiss deepened, and she felt his muscles flex, his hands firming their grip on her. The sensation was almost overwhelming. Every inch of him felt solid, powerful, alive beneath her fingertips.

When she pulled away, her breath shallow, she looked up into his eyes. They were dark, heavy with desire, but there was something else there—something raw, desperate.

"Hmm," Amber murmured, her voice teasing, her lips brushing against his as she pulled back slightly. "You sure you want to keep going?"

Mark's chest rose and fell, his breathing quickening as he gripped her tighter, his lips brushing against her ear. "I don't think I can stop," he rasped, his voice thick with longing.

Amber's hands slid up his chest, exploring the firm muscles beneath his shirt. She could feel his heart racing, could feel the heat between them building, until the world outside the room felt like it was fading away. It was just the two of them.

Then—creak.

Amber's breath hitched in her throat. 

In an instant, they broke apart, moving away from each other like they'd been burned. Amber's pulse hammered in her ears as she quickly sat up, wiping a hand over her flushed cheeks. She glanced at Mark, who was fumbling to straighten his shirt, his face pale with panic.

"Mark?" Debbie's voice came, soft but loud enough to make Amber freeze in place.

Amber's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as she shot a quick look at Mark. His eyes were wide too, panic written all over his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but words failed him.

Debbie stepped forward just slightly, pausing when she saw the two of them sitting so far apart, both suddenly so still. She blinked at them, clearly noticing the tension in the air, but said nothing for a long, awkward moment.

Mark cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. "Uh… yeah, we're, uh, we'll be down in a minute," he stammered, his gaze darting between Amber and his mom.

Debbie didn't seem entirely convinced, but after a long pause, she nodded. "Alright. Dinner's ready. I'll see you both downstairs."

Without another word, she turned and walked away, the door clicking softly as it closed behind her.

Amber exhaled a shaky breath, her heart still pounding. She glanced at Mark, whose face was a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. "That was way too close," he muttered, his hand running through his hair.

Amber chuckled softly, though she could feel the tension still hanging thick in the room. "I think she almost caught us, huh?"

Mark let out a frustrated laugh, shaking his head. "She's got perfect timing. I swear."

Amber smiled, leaning back against the bed. "Well, at least she didn't see anything." She glanced at Mark, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Maybe next time."

Mark shot her a look, a mix of frustration and something deeper. "Next time, huh?" He leaned toward her, his lips just a breath away from hers.