Abel worked with the focused precision of a surgeon performing brain surgery.
The slender engraving tool moved in careful, deliberate strokes, carving ancient magic runes into the inner layer of the wand shaft. One symbol at a time. One line at a time. Each mark had to be perfect—depth, angle, spacing all mathematically precise.
One mistake, and the whole thing would be useless.
He'd learned that lesson the hard way. Twelve times, to be exact.
The runes came first—ancient symbols of power, binding, and resonance that predated modern wizardry by millennia. Then came the connecting patterns, delicate lines of magical circuitry that linked each rune to the next, forming a network like the human nervous system.
Each rune was a neural synapse. Each connecting line was a nerve pathway.
Together, they'd channel magic from his core, through the wand, and out into the world.
In theory.
Abel etched the final magic pattern with agonizing care.
The instant the last line connected, something shifted.
The wand in his hands seemed to breathe. A subtle pulse—barely perceptible, like a heartbeat felt through water—resonated against his palm. His magic reached out instinctively, and the wand answered, humming with potential.
Oh my God.
It worked.
He'd never felt this before. Not in any of his previous attempts. This was different. This was right.
Abel set down his tools with trembling hands and picked up the rough wand shaft. Pine heartwood, thirteen and a half inches, still unfinished but already alive with possibility.
He gave it a slight wave.
His magic flowed into the shaft smoothly, effortlessly, without any of the resistance or dead spots that had plagued his earlier attempts. The connection was clean. Natural. Perfect.
It really worked.
After six months. After a dozen failures. It actually fucking worked.
Relief hit him like a physical wave, so intense it left him dizzy.
But he wasn't done yet.
The shaft needed to be treated with oil—a special mixture that would seal the magical patterns, protect them from degradation, and help the core (once he had one) bond properly with the wood.
Abel had already prepared the materials.
He pulled out seven or eight bottles and jars from his box of supplies, lining them up on the desk like ingredients for some arcane recipe. Olive oil. Ground silver. Salt blessed under a full moon (or at least, salt he'd left outside during a full moon and hoped for the best). Crushed rosemary. A few other herbs whose names he'd half-forgotten.
He mixed them in a large bowl, stirring until the oil took on a faint shimmer—barely visible, but there.
Then he submerged the wand shaft completely, watching the oil seep into the grain, carrying the magic deeper.
Finally—finally—Abel let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Only then did he notice the sunlight streaming through his window.
When did that happen?
He glanced at his clock. 6:47 AM.
He'd been working all night.
Oops.
Abel stood, stretched, and immediately regretted it. His back cracked like a glowstick. His neck felt like rusted metal. His eyes burned from staring at tiny runes for eight straight hours.
Worth it.
He opened the curtains, squinting against the sudden flood of light, and took a moment to appreciate the fact that he'd just accomplished something genuinely impressive.
Then he changed clothes and went for a run.
By the time Abel returned home, showered, and made himself breakfast, it was almost nine.
Theresa was still asleep—she never ate breakfast on her days off, preferring to use her mornings for unconsciousness and denial that the world existed before 11 AM.
Abel ate alone, washed his dishes, got dressed, and checked his phone.
Package delivered.
Finally.
He'd been waiting on this order for weeks. Amazon's delivery speed was, as always, an absolute joke.
I hate 2008.
Abel grabbed the package from the building's front desk and carried it back upstairs like it contained the Holy Grail.
Inside: five types of large bird feathers—owl, crow, raven, hawk, and something the seller had claimed was from a "rare migratory species" but was probably just a seagull. Also included were strands of pure white horsehair, and the preserved neural tissues of three different species: a python, a king cobra, and some kind of lizard.
All materials that might work as a wand core.
Might being the operative word.
Abel spread them across his desk and got to work.
An hour later, smoke rose from the charred remains of snake neural tissue.
The smell was awful—burnt protein and failure, with notes of crushed dreams.
Abel stared at the ruined material and fought the urge to throw something.
That was the last viable option. Every single material I've purchased has failed.
None of them could withstand the magical current flowing through the circuit he'd engraved. They either burned, crumbled, or just sat there doing nothing.
Figures.
Staff bodies might be found in the mundane world, but cores? Cores require magic. Real magic. The kind that doesn't exist in ordinary animals.
Should I go to the New York Sanctum?
Abel's jaw clenched.
No. Not yet.
He still had other combinations to try. Different binding patterns. Alternative preparation methods. He'd only exhausted the obvious approaches.
The Sanctum was a last resort. An absolute last resort.
Because walking into Kamar-Taj as an unknown magical entity and asking the Ancient One for help was basically gambling that she wouldn't immediately decide he was a threat and erase him from existence.
Even if she was supposed to be one of the good guys—a guardian of Earth's mystical side—that didn't mean she'd be nice about it.
And with his current power level? He'd be about as threatening to her as a particularly aggressive kitten.
No. Keep trying. Exhaust every other option first.
Abel leaned back in his chair, opened his laptop, and started browsing eBay and Amazon again. More bird feathers. More horsehair. More amphibian specimens.
This is my life now. Buying dead animals on the internet and hoping they're secretly magical.
He placed the orders, checked the time, and groaned.
12:30 PM.
He needed to eat lunch and get to work.
The coffee shop was exactly two blocks away—a small mercy in a city where commutes could eat your soul.
Abel had been working there since last year, mostly out of financial necessity. Wand materials were expensive. Wood from century-old trees didn't come cheap. And his allowance from Theresa, while generous, wasn't infinite.
Fortunately, he had the kind of face that made hiring managers overlook the fact that he was fifteen. Tall. Handsome. Older-looking than his actual age. He'd walked into the interview, smiled, and been hired on the spot.
Six-hour shifts, three days a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays starting at 4 PM. Saturdays at 1 PM.
Theresa had objected at first—worried he was working too hard, pushing himself too much—but she'd acquiesced when he insisted. Though she did make a point of picking him up on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, waiting outside in her car like a concerned parent.
Which, to be fair, she was.
Abel changed into his uniform, tied on his apron, and took his position behind the counter.
"Hey, Abel!" His coworker, Marcus (different Marcus, not the doorman), waved from the espresso machine. "Rough night?"
"Something like that."
"You look like death."
"Thanks. That's the look I was going for."
Marcus laughed and went back to steaming milk.
Abel served customers on autopilot—smile, take order, make coffee, repeat—while his mind wandered back to wand cores and magical theory.
Then the TV in the corner caught his attention.
"—renowned entrepreneur and philanthropist Tony Stark will be honored tonight with the Annual Pinnacle Award, recognizing his contributions to maintaining peace in America and the world—"
Pinnacle Award.
Abel's hands stilled mid-pour.
That sounded familiar. Very familiar.
When does Tony get kidnapped? Is it before or after the award ceremony?
He frowned, trying to remember the timeline. His MCU knowledge was decent but not encyclopedic. He knew the broad strokes—Tony gets kidnapped, builds the Mark I in a cave, becomes Iron Man, kicks off the whole superhero era.
But the specific details?
Eh. Probably not my problem anyway.
He shook his head and finished making the latte.
By seven PM, Abel was done with his shift.
He changed out of his uniform, said goodbye to Marcus, and headed home through the twilight streets of New York. The city was alive with that particular energy that came with Saturday evenings—people heading to dinner, to bars, to parties, to whatever adventures awaited them.
Abel just wanted to collapse into bed.
Theresa was setting the table when he walked in, humming to herself, looking happier than she had in days.
"Perfect timing!" she called. "Wash up and come eat."
Abel nodded, dropped his bag, and headed to the bathroom.
When he returned, freshly washed and marginally more human, he noticed something odd.
There were three sets of cutlery on the table.
Three.
Abel stopped mid-step.
Did Mom get a boyfriend?
His mind immediately went to worst-case scenarios. Some sleazy guy taking advantage of her kindness. Some creep who—
Wait. Calm down. Don't be paranoid.
Theresa had every right to date. She was an adult. A successful, attractive adult who deserved happiness.
As long as he's not an asshole. Or conservative. Definitely not red.
This was New York. He knew the statistics.
Before he could spiral further, there was a knock at the door.
Theresa practically bounced to answer it, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Abel, my dear, guess who's here?"
"Mom, I could guess all the way to the White House. Just let them in already."
"Okay!"
She opened the door.
A young woman stepped inside—early twenties, blonde hair pulled back with a headband, glasses perched on her nose, wearing a casual hoodie that screamed "college student." She gave Theresa a warm hug, smiling broadly.
"Cousin Theresa! We haven't seen each other in, what, seven or eight years?"
"At least! Maybe longer." Theresa pulled back, beaming. "You're in college in New York now, right?"
"Yep! Stony Brook University. Just finished my freshman year."
"That's wonderful!" Theresa turned to Abel with that particular expression mothers get when comparing their children to objectively superior specimens. "It would be great if Abel could be like you when the time comes."
Ah yes. The universal constant: someone else's child.
Abel resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
The two women chatted for another minute before Theresa finally remembered he existed.
"Oh! Sharon, this is my son, Abel Shaw." She gestured between them like a game show host. "Abel, this is Sharon Carter. She's... well, technically she's your... I guess she's some kind of distant cousin? On your father's side, I think?"
The blonde woman—Sharon—turned to him with an easy smile.
"Her mother and your grandmother are cousins," Theresa continued. "Sharon and I were very close when I was her age. She's studying at Stony Brook now, and she'll be visiting often in the future, so you two should get to know each other well."
Abel looked at Sharon Carter.
Sharon Carter looked back at Abel.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, alarm bells started ringing.
Sharon Carter.
Carter.
Why does that name sound familiar?
He searched his memories, pulling through everything he knew about the MCU. Sharon Carter. Sharon Carter. Sharon—
Oh.
Oh no.
Sharon Carter.
From the comics. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. From the Captain America storyline. Working with—
"Abel?" Theresa was looking at him with concern. "Are you okay, sweetheart? You've gone pale."
"Fine. Just tired from work." He forced a smile. "Hey, Sharon. Welcome to New York."
"Thanks!" Sharon extended her hand, and her handshake was firm, professional. Too professional for a college student visiting family. "Great to meet you, Abel. Theresa talks about you all the time."
She does.
"Really? That's... nice."
They sat down to eat, and Theresa launched into a series of conversational topics—Sharon's classes, the university, life in New York, how wonderful it was to have family around.
Abel mostly focused on not looking suspicious.
Okay, so Sharon Carter is now living in New York. As a college student. At Stony Brook University.
Stony Brook was on Long Island, about an hour from the city. Which meant she could visit Theresa regularly without it being weird.
Which also means she can keep tabs on me without it being weird.
But why would S.H.I.E.L.D. plant an agent on him? They already had Coulson. They already knew where he lived. They already had his phone number.
Unless...
Unless Coulson had decided he was worth more resources. Unless S.H.I.E.L.D. had decided that a teenager with mysterious magical powers who'd killed a mind-controller deserved closer surveillance.
Which would be the smart move, honestly.
Abel watched Sharon as she ate, noting the careful way she listened to Theresa's stories, the genuine warmth in her responses. She seemed nice. Genuinely nice.
Which made her either an excellent spy or actually just a college student visiting family.
Occam's Razor suggests she's just a college student.
But the universe had a tendency to work against Occam's Razor when you had magical knowledge and enemies that existed in other dimensions.
It was around seven or eight in the evening. Not too late. Still safe.
"Thanks for dinner, Theresa," Sharon said, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Seriously, that was amazing."
"Come back anytime!" Theresa beamed. "It was so good to see you."
They hugged. Sharon climbed out of the car, waved, and watched Theresa drive away.
The moment the car disappeared around the corner, Sharon's smile faded.
She pulled out her phone, dialed a number, and spoke quietly. "Sir, I'm out."
Coulson's voice came through immediately, calm and professional. "Sharon, I'm sorry to make you monitor family member."
"Sir, you know this was my own choice." Sharon's tone was firm. "Rather than having a stranger agent monitor them, it's better for me—someone who has a connection with them—to do it. This way, no misunderstandings will be caused. I can better convey our intentions, and I can better protect their interests. It's a win-win choice."
"But if something goes wrong, you'll probably be the most endangered person on this operation," Coulson said carefully. "So if you want to back out, I'll immediately assign another agent. Please trust me—they will be fair and just."
"Sir, I insist on carrying out this mission." Sharon's jaw tightened. "Besides, the target is only similar to Abel, not necessarily him. At least during this observation, I didn't see any abnormalities. In my opinion, they're just a very ordinary mother and son. At most, the kid has a composure that doesn't match his age, but other than that, there's nothing special."
"I understand your feelings," Coulson said quietly. "But Abel Shaw is, without a doubt, the most likely super-powered individual who killed Kilgrave. Although we don't have clear evidence yet, there's over an eighty percent chance he's the target. So please continue to observe him. And don't let him go down a dark path—otherwise, we'll have no choice but to intervene."
"I understand, sir." Sharon paused. "However, I don't like calling him the person who killed Kilgrave. I prefer to call him the person who saved Jessica Jones."
A beat of silence.
"Alright," Coulson said. "I understand. I'll be mindful of the terminology from now on. This conversation ends here."
The line went dead.
Sharon stood in front of the subway station, watching the roaring train approach in the distance. She sighed—long, deep, frustrated.
She'd always looked up to her aunt, Peggy Carter, as the gold standard of what an agent should be. Strong. Principled. Unwavering in her convictions.
But now, with her own family and friends becoming mission targets, Sharon realized for the first time that she wasn't as steadfast as she'd thought.
I hope Abel isn't that person.
I hope Abel isn't a bad person.
Pleasant weekends always passed too quickly.
After his morning run, Abel rode his bike to school with his backpack slung over one shoulder, enjoying the cool air and the brief illusion of normalcy.
He parked his bike, locked it, and turned just in time to see Sean approaching—looking like death warmed over.
"Sean," Abel said, grinning. "Why are your dark circles so heavy? You look like you lost a fight with a raccoon."
Sean groaned, scratching his unwashed, explosive hair. "Don't ask. I was trying to finish Assassin's Creed last night, but that game is really too hard. I played for hours and only got halfway through. By the time I looked up, the sky was already lightening."
"I hope you don't fall asleep in class," Abel said, amused. "Otherwise, I don't think Mrs. Frey will let you off. You know how serious she is."
"I'll try. Honestly, I'm already regretting playing games last night. I really—"
Sean kept talking, but Abel's attention drifted.
His gaze snagged on a girl walking into the school from outside—someone he didn't recognize, which was unusual for Midtown. She looked ordinary enough. Dark hair. Average height. Unremarkable clothes.
But something was wrong.
Abel could feel it.
Malevolence radiated from her like heat from asphalt on a summer day. Not anger. Not hostility. Something deeper. Purer. A darkness that ran all the way to the bone.
He'd felt this kind of thing before—back in his previous life, when Death Eaters walked the halls of Hogwarts wearing human faces. But even Voldemort hadn't carried malice this concentrated. This absolute.
This was something else entirely.
What the hell is she?
Abel's frown deepened.
If someone like that was attending Midtown, it would inevitably lead to problems.
Big problems.
Soon.