The corridors of Midtown High buzzed with the usual Monday morning chaos. Esdeath moved through the crowd with practiced ease, slipping between clusters of students without drawing attention. She spotted Peter and Gwen by the lockers, their heads bent close together as they laughed over something on Gwen's notebook.
The sight sparked a peculiar emptiness in her chest. Not jealousy—something more complex. Watching them interact with such unguarded sincerity made her acutely aware of her own performance.
I'm playing a role here, she thought, adjusting her backpack strap. Not exactly lying, but curating a version of herself that could exist safely in these halls. The girl who could shatter concrete with ice spears and who had nearly killed a man yesterday morning was carefully tucked away beneath a mask of normalcy.
"Hey, Esdeath!" Liz Allen waved from across the hall. "You coming to the study group Thursday?"
"Probably," she answered with a casual smile. "Depends on my uncle's schedule."
Simple. Easy. Forgettable.
In English class, Mr. Harrington posed a question about Holden Caulfield's motivations in Catcher in the Rye. When the silence stretched uncomfortably long, Esdeath raised her hand.
"I think he's just scared," she offered, keeping her voice neutral despite having stronger opinions. "He talks about phonies because he's terrified of becoming one."
Several heads turned, male gazes lingering longer than necessary. She slouched slightly in her chair, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face. The attention felt like spotlight beams on her skin—too revealing, too dangerous.
"Excellent point" Mr. Harrington nodded approvingly.
She didn't volunteer again.
The cafeteria smelled of industrial pizza and floor cleaner. Esdeath chose a table with a clear view of Peter and Gwen but maintained enough distance to avoid seeming interested. She unwrapped her sandwich methodically, attention split between her food and their conversation.
Flash Thompson approached their table, snatching Peter's notebook with a sneer. "What's this, Parker? More nerd gibberish?"
"It's just a theory on polymer adhesives," Peter replied, voice steady but soft. "Nothing interesting."
"Actually," he continued, reaching for the notebook, "it could revolutionize industrial applications if I can get the formula right."
Flash rolled his eyes, tossing the notebook back. "Whatever, science boy."
Esdeath watched Peter straighten his glasses, never once raising his voice or squaring his shoulders. Still too soft, she thought. In this world of monsters and madmen, how long would that gentleness survive?
Walking home, autumn leaves crunched beneath her boots. The setting sun cast long shadows across Brooklyn's streets, and Esdeath found herself pondering the war within her mind.
Mark's voice still whispered caution from some quiet corner—logical, measured, afraid of consequences. But the Esdeath part grew stronger daily: the cold calculation, the hunger for dominance, the ruthless clarity that saw weaknesses in everyone she passed.
She paused at a crosswalk, watching her reflection in a storefront window. Same face, same eyes, but something harder in the gaze that looked back at her.
"Balance," she murmured to herself as the light changed. "That's the game now."
But even as she said it, she wondered how long anyone could walk the razor's edge between two natures before inevitably falling to one side.
Frank pushed his plate away with a satisfied grunt. "Good mac and cheese, kiddo. You're getting better at that."
"Secret's in the breadcrumbs," Esdeath replied, gathering their dishes. The domestic routine felt surreal after everything she'd discovered about herself. "How's work going?"
"Same old. Johnson's riding my ass about the Chevy that came in yesterday." Frank rubbed his eyes. "Gonna be another late night tomorrow."
"Need me to drop off dinner?"
He shook his head. "Nah. Mike's wife is bringing everyone subs." He studied her face. "You okay? You seem... different lately."
Esdeath's heart skipped. "Different how?"
"Dunno. More... focused? Like you're planning something."
She forced a casual shrug. "Just school stuff. Thinking about college applications."
"That's good. Real good." His voice softened. "Your mom would be proud."
The mention of her mother—a woman Mark had never known but whose memories lived in Esdeath's mind—created a strange dissonance. "Thanks, Uncle Frank."
Later, after Frank dozed off watching TV, Esdeath slipped into her room. She pulled on black jeans, a dark hoodie, and wrapped a scarf around her lower face. Gloves came next, then boots with good traction. Nothing fancy, nothing memorable.
Her window opened silently, and she dropped to the fire escape with practiced ease. The metal barely creaked under her weight as she descended, then leapt to the adjacent building's lower roof.
The night air felt electric against her skin. Each movement flowed with uncanny precision—her body responding to impulses before her mind fully formed them. She vaulted between rooftops, using momentum and her enhanced strength to cross gaps that would have been impossible weeks ago.
Brooklyn spread beneath her like a circuit board of lights and shadows. She moved purposefully toward the edges of neighborhoods where crime festered in the darkness between streetlights.
Twenty minutes into her patrol, she found what she was looking for. A narrow alley, a woman walking alone, and a man emerging from the shadows with predatory intent.
"Wallet and phone," he demanded, flicking open a switchblade. "Don't make me ask twice."
The woman's fear was palpable even from Esdeath's perch above. She clutched her purse tighter. "Please, I have children—"
"Not my problem, lady."
Esdeath didn't immediately intervene. She watched, analyzing his stance, the way he held the knife, how close he stood to his victim. Tactical assessment, yes—but something else kept her motionless. The tableau below resonated with a dark satisfaction.
Enough observation.
She dropped silently behind him, ice crystallizing around her right hand, forming a dagger that caught the dim light. With a precise sweep of her leg, she knocked his feet from under him. He hit the pavement hard, and before he could react, she pinned him with one knee on his chest, ice blade pressed against his throat.
"Wrong alley," she whispered, feeling her eyes cool as they began to glow with a faint blue luminescence.
The mugger's eyes widened in terror. A whimper escaped his lips as the cold edge pressed against his pulse point.
The woman grabbed her scattered belongings and fled without a word of thanks. Esdeath barely noticed her departure.
Instead, she knelt closer, watching fear transform the man's face. His rapid breathing, the sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill, the trembling of his jaw—all of it fed something primal within her.
"Why does this feel so good?" she wondered silently, inhaling deeply as if his terror had a scent she could savor.
After several long seconds, she stood. "Lucky night for you."
With a gesture, ice encased his feet, anchoring him to the pavement. The switchblade she pocketed—a trophy of sorts.
"Someone will find you. Eventually."
As she scaled back to the rooftops, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. The rush lingered, sweeter than any video game victory Mark had ever known.
he whispers had been circulating for weeks. An old textile factory on the edge of the industrial district—where the cops never patrolled and streetlights failed to illuminate. Perfect territory for Paulie Costello's crew to expand their operations.
Esdeath perched on a corrugated metal roof across the street, watching men come and go through a rusted side door. She counted eight, maybe ten inside. Armed, certainly. Dangerous, supposedly.
Her lips quirked. Perfect.
She didn't bother with stealth once inside. The first man barely had time to shout before ice encased his legs and crawled up to his chest. The second reached for his gun—too slow. A shard of ice pierced his shoulder, pinning him to the wall like an insect in a collection.
"What the fu—" The third never finished his sentence.
Esdeath moved through the space like water, flowing between obstacles, leaving frozen destruction in her wake. One thug swung a baseball bat at her head. She caught it mid-swing, the wood crackling as frost spread across its surface. With a casual twist, she snapped it in half and drove her knee into his sternum.
"Boss! We got a problem!" someone screamed from deeper in the factory.
A man with a face like weathered leather appeared in a doorway, pistol already drawn. He fired twice. Esdeath twisted, feeling the bullets slice air inches from her face. The missed shots only widened her smile.
She reached out, drawing moisture from the air itself, forming it into deadly projectiles that launched toward him with frightening precision. One shattered his gun hand. Another sliced across his cheek.
"Who sent you?" he gasped, clutching his mangled fingers.
Esdeath didn't answer. Words were unnecessary. She simply moved forward, methodical and relentless.
The last man tried to flee. Ice erupted from the concrete floor, forming a barrier that sent him sprawling. She stood over him, watching fear dilate his pupils.
"Please," he whimpered.
Her response was a boot to his temple. Not enough to kill—just enough to silence.
When it ended, Esdeath stood in the center of the factory floor. Bodies lay scattered around her—some unconscious, others moaning in pain, all defeated. Moonlight streamed through broken windows, catching on the ice formations that transformed the dreary space into something almost beautiful.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, not from exertion but from pure, undiluted pleasure. Power coursed through her veins like electricity, better than any high Mark had ever chased through games or fantasies.
"I'm not a hero," she whispered to no one, her breath visible in the chill she'd created. A small, satisfied smile played across her lips as she surveyed her handiwork. "But I'm exactly what this world needs."
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