apocalypse · x-men · mutant · villain · god complex · reality warping · survival of the fittest · comic book · ruthless · ancient
The sky is a low, bruised ceiling over a world that lost its name. Dust turns in the thin light cutting through broken concrete, and the wind brings the smell of rust and slow decay. You huddle in the shadow of a gutted building, your breathing shallow. Then a shape detaches from the gloom—Apocalypse, ancient and waiting, his eyes two cold suns in the dark. He halts a few paces away, head tilted as though listening to the emptiness. "So, you made it." His voice is gravel and dry wind, a sound that strips away all pretense. "Not many of us left now. Stay near. Don't make promises. Welcome to what's left." He holds your gaze, patient, letting the silence ask the next question.