“Sooo.” Eric was enjoying the rare pleasure of seeing a very shy Abigail. She was holding one of her arms and touching the floor with one of her boots, toes straight towards the ground. “Can we talk, Uncle Chet?”

They were below a viaduct, with cardboard homes and barrels filling the homeless commune. Around nine guys lived there; Abigail was one of them once, before Eric found her.

Chet was their non-official leader, he supposed. It was nothing that they spoke loudly of, but everybody respected him and asked him for advice. And talking of the devil…

The old man who was leaving his poor hut was disfigured, with an ugly scar where his left cheek was supposed to be. And his left eye was uneven, like if the skin and bone around him had melted until it dropped a few centimeters. He never told them how this happened, and they never asked.

Uncle Chet was a tanned white man; he was smaller than Eric and had the constitution of a bear. His big belly and strong arms never left his body, despite his otherwise emaciated state. And he was old indeed, above his sixties, which always made Abigail furious.

A man like him should not be abandoned in the streets, especially at his old age, she complained.

Which sounded funny to Eric. Both of them shouldn’t be on the streets either. But such was life.

Abigail's gloved hands tried to help the old man stand up. He lightly tapped her hand away, always preferring to get up by himself. He then stared at their new clothes, especially Abigail's one, and his thin lips got even thinner.

The least was said about his frown the best. Abigail was a very brave young woman.

“What do you want?”

“…”

Was that a blush? Eric knew that his next acquisition would be one of these cameras; he needs to immortalize these precious moments.

“So?” Asked the older man.

“Er… Can you teach us how to drive? Please?”

“No.” His tone, which used to be warm and friendly, was short, rough, and impatient.

Eric stopped smiling at Abigail's cost; this was much worse than he expected. Chet turned around to enter his house again; none of the gentle uncles in the boy's memories could be seen.

“Please, you are the only adult that we can trust. We can pay you—”

“I DON'T WANT YOUR DIRTY MONEY!”

The teenager boy flinched at the scream, almost falling to the ground, if not for Abigail suddenly holding him. He was now muted and tense, his mischievous eyes sharp and observant. The other men around the camp turned to look around, trying to grant them as much privacy as possible.

“…”

Abigail's posture changed too; none of the shy teenage girl was present. Nor the angry and violent girl that she often was. Eric could not see his Abby anywhere on her face.

There was something else there—something colder, something older.

It almost reminded him of that day. Almost.

“Very well.” She said, staring into the angry man's eye. “I am sorry for bothering you. We will take our leave.” And she nodded to him. “Thank you. For everything.”

She turned around to leave, dragging Eric with her. And he wondered if he would see her cry, later.

Later, when she was his Abby again.

Not that Eric disliked this Abigail; it was still her, but it was not his Abby. His Abby didn’t look at the world like this. Didn’t look at him like this.

They were almost 15 meters away, Abigail never looking back, when they heard a reply.

“Wait!”

The girl stopped walking. Eric felt that she did it more out of respect for the man who was so gentle to her before than out of any desire to do so. It was a small thing about her personality, that no one from before knew. How much she can respect someone.

However, even then, she remained unmoved.

“I will help you two.” Continued Uncle Chet, that got closer to them.

His expression was something that the teenage boy didn’t quite know how to explain. The best of his abilities could only come with the word tired.

“Why?” The girl's face twisted around a little, and a single eye observed the aged man.

“Come on, Abigail, you shouldn’t ask. What if he changes his mind again? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Perhaps if he tried hard enough to annoy her, she would become his Abby sooner.

“Because otherwise you won’t come back. And this will solve nothing.”

Abigail nodded, her persona far more silenced than normal.

And Uncle Chet was right; she would not have come back.

“We can do it today! It's not like you have a job, and I already bought my baby, Vanessa.”

For now, Eric would fill the silence. With luck, the other two would stop being awkward sooner than later, and Abigail would stop punishing his jab at Uncle by almost breaking his arm.

The things that he does for her—what a poor man I am.

- | -

Thank God I didn’t bring Eric.

It was a Thursday, a week after Abigail first came across Diego. They were now inside what Abigail thought to be a nightclub. And it was a nightclub, on the surface.

But deep down, in the underground, the girl had an encounter with the real purpose of the club. There were stacks upon stacks of all kinds of drugs, good-quality ones, she believed, ready to be deployed to their clientele.

And, to her never-spoken disappointment, the muscular guys packing the drugs were not stripped down; it seemed like that part was just an urban myth. A shame, in her most sincere opinion.

Albeit, Abigail believed that underground bases and drug operations inside a nightlife establishment were myths too, yet here it was, hidden in the most obvious place. The miracles of corruption and rich addicts are a wonder to see.

She anticipated more from the criminal staff, though most of them peered in their direction once and immediately changed their focus to anywhere else. She wasn't stupid; she knew that some individuals were wary of her eyes—eyes that were uncovered—but those were hardened criminals, not random commoners.

It was not her that they feared; it could not be her. It was Diego that they didn’t dare to stare at.

Their bodies stiffened when he was around. And when he gave them orders, the workers didn’t ask questions, complain, or do anything but follow his commands.

There were so many drugs and so much staff. She wondered how much influence Diego's boss really had. And how many drug operations like this one did he have? How many underlings are under his name?

She almost felt envy—

“Titan, was it?” Spoke the tall Latino man, interrupting her thoughts. “It is certainly a… choice, in a nickname.”

Diego was hurt; there was a big bruise on his face, his left arm was covered in medical tape, and he was leaning slightly on his right foot. Someone bested him, badly.

“First name that came to mind.” She shrugged. “I am not attached to it.”

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Both of them were making their way towards a rectangular room in the corner of the basement.

“Good. We are going to change it.”

Abigail knew that the name was as generic as it could possibly be, but that sounded like an odd thing for a criminal to care about, in her opinion.

“You are going to fight some of my guys; I want to see how you will perform.”

“Oh, hum…” The girl fidgets around for a few seconds, unable to formulate her request in a more polite and subtle way. “How attached are you to these guys?”

Diego glanced at her from the corner of his vision.

“Just don’t kill anyone.”

“I must insist on medical staff being present, then.”

He stopped moving.

“Are you serious, girl?”

“I am afraid so.”

The man's orbs didn’t leave her bare face for almost a minute. Then he grunted, before resuming his pace.

“I will change your opponents and call our doctors.”

“That would be for the better, yes.”

They entered the aforementioned room, and it was a gym. Weights and a few machines loitered around. But it was also a dojo, it appeared, for in the middle there was one of these giant martial arts mattresses that she had seen in Asian magazines before.

“Wait for a moment; I will be back soon.”

The teenager waited for 5 minutes, sitting on a cushioned bench, before Diego came into view again with five strong looking men and what she knew was the medical staff behind him.

- | -

She closed her hands in a fist. Abigail didn’t know any martial arts or even how to throw a proper punch. But there was no need for her to know these things.

The weak learn, because they crave strength. The strong don’t understand, for they possess might.

A closed fist came from a guy on her left, aiming straight at her face. She thought about letting it hit, but she knew that showing as little of her abilities as possible was the best way forward.

So she dodged the punch—a single, short, right step. And she made a short jump; a kick was targeting her feet.

It was a weird feeling, and Abigail didn’t know how to properly explain how she feel the world. It was not in slow motion, nor did she have any obscenely powerful senses; be it her vision, smell, touch, or hearing, none were that different.

And yet, her body knew what to do. And she reacted so fast that sometimes it felt like she had a premonition.

After her left foot touched the ground again, the girl stomped the leg that she had just dodged.

A scream and a crack—she wasn't sure which one came first. She saw red and white for a fraction of a second, before flipping the back of her left hand at a close belly, someone tried to get close to her.

As the body flew away, a sledgehammer obliterating it, Abigail removed her feet from the smashed leg and fled in a straight line to another man. Three meters, two meters, one meter. She punched, and it was easily telegraphed, and it was blocked by an elbow.

The elbow sank, the joints teared, and the shoulder snapped. Once more, she saw red and white.

Three were done, two to go.

The momentum of her running hasn't finished yet, so she released a second stomp, at the ground this time, to forcefully change direction. Concrete cried as her shoe penetrated the floor, and her own ankle sprained as she swung 90 degrees.

She almost fell to the ground, losing her balance from the sudden motion. Her ankle, however, had already healed, hidden from observing eyes. Using her core muscles to stay afloat, the girl saw the two enemies left. They were not coming to her.

Fine, she can do it herself.

Her boot was freed from the concrete with a rough tump. Again, she ran, and again, she got close.

She fell to a feint, a false punch that opened to grab. The grunt tried to stun her and constrain her, but it was of no use. His frail flesh failed him. As he spun the girl to lock her in a sleeper hold, one elbow choking and the other arm holding her head, Abigail commanded her body to the ground. His back broke before hers.

Abigail stood up; weak arms fell from her head, and she grabbed one of them with one hand. And slammed the man to the ground again. She heard a splash, and a snap; something was broken.

What was the last one doing? She asked herself. He, the man who did the first punch, was just lying still, motionless. Abigail tilted her head, understanding flying over her head.

A trap? Some technique? She did not know.

Ignoring her confusion, she walked towards him. His legs suddenly gave up, and he was kneeling on the ground. But the girl couldn't care less if this was a trick or if he was surrendering. She raised her hand, and warped his belly.

He was left contorting in the ground; all of them were, in some capacity. Big and strong men shivering in fear and pain.

It was a nice feeling, thought Abigail. Seeing them like this, weak, crying, below her.

Ghost Girl would say that this is how it was always meant to be.

She felt inclined to agree.

“What the hell, girl? I said no killing.”

What?

Abigail turned quickly to look at Diego, one eyebrow arching.

“I didn’t kill them.”

“They will die from bleeding.”

She looked at the guys, but try as she did, she couldn't see it.

“They are fine? In any case, that is why I insisted on the doctors.”

Said doctors were already patching them up.

“T-They are not dying.” Told a woman from the medical staff. “Somehow she missed any fatal injury.”

See. They are fine.

Diego raised one eyebrow himself. A thoughtful expression on his face.

- | -

She is clearly untrained, but she was able to not kill them. His eyes moved from one hurt man to another. Albeit, I don’t think that most of them will be able to live normally anymore.

Instincts, weird ones, she reacted before what should be possible and stroked to maximize injuries without killing. Brutal, but not a murderer.

Diego continued to observe the girl and saw how she disregarded the blood on her right leg. And she didn’t seem to even notice the drops on her cheeks. He could see how the violence and exposed broken bones didn’t faze her in the slightest, and he doubted that this girl wouldn't be able to kill.

So her instincts likely allow her to not kill if she doesn’t want to, too.

Perfect.

His boss's operations have been suffering a hit lately from this annoying black hero cop. And they would rather not kill the celebrity and attract national news. But it was evident that, just like he always said, God did indeed love his boss, for an Empowered henchman appeared, literally, on their doors.

And she was a weapon that would not kill the asshole but lock him in the hospital for months, or permanently.

The girl was stronger than the hero, too. That guy couldn't break concrete that easily.

Now, he just needs to be sure to keep her in debt with them. It wouldn't do for her to bite their hands later. Diego had no pretense of gathering her loyalty, however.

He knew ambition when he saw it; that girl would not stay under anyone for long. He saw how she almost beamed after defeating her enemies, the pleasure of being above them painted on her face.

There was a deep hunger in those starving, creepy, crimson orbs, and it craved more.

She reminded him of his boss.

Diego stared at the scene a final time. Disturbing eyes, an uncaring face, broken men, bloody bones, hopeless cries…

“Nightmare.”

“Hm?” She tilted her head.

“Your name. It will be Nightmare.”

“Eh~” Her hand covered her mouth, suppressing a chuckle. “That sounds even sillier than Titan.”

The more he gazed at her, the blacker the shadows became, and the more colors the world lost.

In the midst of this scenery, the girl was almost giggling.

“No.” He shook his head. “It is appropriate.”