Zenith

The air over Manhattan was thick with smoke and ash, fires lighting up the skyline like war beacons. Elijah stood over a smoldering crater, panting like a mad dog. His mouth twisted in rage, suit barely hanging on—torn, blackened, soaked in blood that wasn't just his own. His eyes had gone wide with something deeper than fury. Something feral.

"I'll break you!" he bellowed, grabbing a shattered radio tower and hurling it like a spear through a building, missing Maxwell by inches.

Marvelo-Man landed hard, boots cracking pavement, eyes calm but stern. His chest rose with each breath, bruised and bleeding, but his movements were sharper now. More precise. The serum had stabilized in him fully.

Each time Elijah swung, Max dodged smoother. Each time he roared, Max countered quieter.

While Elijah spiraled downward, Marvelo-Man was ascending.

"You're holding back!" Elijah screamed. "You think you're better than me?"

"I know I have to be," Max replied.

Their fists met again, and the shockwave shattered every window in a six-block radius.

Then Max flew upward—fast, vertical, breaking the clouds.

Elijah followed.

They punched through the sky, streaks of black and red cutting through the clouds like comets. Civilians on rooftops pointed and screamed. Soldiers on the ground scrambled. Max shot higher. Elijah chased without hesitation.

"You'll die with me!" Elijah shrieked.

Max didn't respond.

They breached the stratosphere.

Then the thermosphere.

The air grew thin. Cold. Silent.

Above them, Earth spun slowly beneath their feet. The stars opened around them like a dome.

Elijah's breath was ragged, his mind slipping. "This is it, Marvelo! This is where gods settle things!"

Max turned slowly to face him, cape floating behind him like a banner of flame and blood.

"No," he said, voice clear in Elijah's mind through the neural surge. "This is where men fall."

Elijah lunged.

Max met him head-on.

The last bout had begun.