Theresa opened the apartment door at 10:47 in the morning.
The sun was already high, streaming through the windows in sharp, accusatory angles. She carried grocery bags in both arms—vegetables, rice, spices, the ingredients for a light broth, something to soothe and restore. Her shoulders ached from the hours spent at the restaurant, answering questions. Her mind felt hollowed out.
The police had been thorough. Federal agents had been thorough. An ambulance had come. A body had been removed. She'd been interviewed, examined by paramedics who found nothing seriously wrong with her except a mild headache and some bruising on her neck that she couldn't quite explain. Stress response, they'd said. Dissociation.
She still couldn't remember the details clearly. Just fragments. A man in a purple suit. Fear. And then... nothing.
But the restaurant was damaged. Someone had died. And Theresa had been caught in the middle of it.
Now she moved through the apartment with the exhausted efficiency of someone running on empty. She set the groceries down and immediately checked on her son.
Abel's bedroom door was closed. The apartment was quiet. And as Theresa stood in the hallway, listening to the silence, she realized something unusual: Abel hadn't come to greet her. Abel was still asleep.
That was... not like him.
She opened his door carefully, mindful not to wake him too suddenly. What she found made her chest tighten with concern. Abel was still in bed, fully dressed from the day before, sprawled across the mattress like someone who'd simply collapsed. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the morning light. There were dark circles under his eyes—the kind that didn't come from a single night's poor sleep, but from something deeper.
Theresa pressed her hand to his forehead. Warm. Still running a fever.
She let him sleep and returned to the kitchen.
Abel woke to the smell of broth.
It was a gentle smell—chicken, ginger, the faint earthiness of mushrooms. The kind of scent that his mother had perfected over years, something designed to comfort and restore. He emerged from his room slowly, moving like someone whose body was still negotiating with the concept of consciousness.
Theresa looked up from the stove, and her expression immediately shifted from relief to concern.
"You're awake," she said. "Finally. You've been asleep for at least sixteen hours."
Sixteen hours. Abel's mind struggled to process that. He'd collapsed into bed after verifying his eBay orders, after confirming that Jessica Jones had survived, after the weight of everything finally caught up with him. And apparently, sleep had claimed him entirely.
"I was tired," he said, the words coming out rough.
"You're still running a fever." Theresa crossed to him and placed her hand on his forehead, confirming what her eyes already suspected. "You need to rest more. But first, we need to talk."
She settled him at the kitchen table with a bowl of broth while she leaned against the counter, her posture suggesting she needed the support.
"The restaurant," she began, her voice careful. "Something happened yesterday. Someone attacked it. Someone dangerous."
Abel's entire body tensed, but he forced himself to remain still. He knew exactly what had happened. He'd caused it.
"Are you alright?" he asked, and he was glad his voice sounded concerned because he genuinely was concerned—concerned that she'd figure out it was him, concerned that SHIELD would follow her trail back to him, concerned that his actions had put her in danger in the first place.
"I'm fine. The paramedics checked me. The police interviewed me." Theresa's hand rose to her neck, touching the faint bruising that she still couldn't quite explain. "I have a headache, but it's nothing serious. What matters is that someone stopped the person who was causing the trouble. Someone with... abilities. The police weren't very clear about what happened, but it's obvious they're still investigating."
Abel sipped his broth, trying to keep his expression neutral. She was alive. She'd been checked over. She didn't remember enough to be in danger.
"I'm glad you're safe," he said quietly.
Theresa studied him for a long moment, and Abel could see her mother's mind working, cataloging the details. The paleness. The fever. The way he was moving carefully, as if his body hurt. The slight tremor in his hands as he held the bowl.
"You look terrible," she said finally. "Worse than terrible. When did you get sick?"
"Yesterday. During school, probably. I think I caught something." The lie was smooth, practiced. He'd had years to perfect them.
"You're going to rest today. No arguments. I'm making you a proper meal—something light but nourishing. And you're staying in bed until that fever comes down." Theresa's maternal command brooked no debate. "Understand?"
"Understood."
She left him to finish his broth while she returned to the kitchen, the quiet domestic sounds of cooking filling the apartment. The familiar rhythm of knife on cutting board. Water boiling. Ingredients being combined with the care of someone who'd spent decades perfecting her craft.
The doorbell rang around noon.
Theresa was in the middle of preparing a more substantial meal, and she'd asked Abel to rest in his room while she finished. So it was she who signed for the package, she who brought it to his room, she who set it on his desk with a slight smile.
"Your eBay order arrived," she said. "Wood for your handicraft project?"
Abel sat up slowly, his heart rate already accelerating. The pine wood. Finally.
"Yeah," he said. "School project. We're supposed to carve something."
Theresa examined the package with the casual interest of a mother who'd stopped trying to fully understand her teenage son's hobbies years ago. "That's quite the commitment. You want help? I'm fairly skilled with carving."
"No, the teacher wants us to do it ourselves. I'll figure it out."
"Alright." Theresa set the box down on his desk. "Rest. I'll call you when lunch is ready."
By the time they sat down to eat, the package had been carefully placed on his desk, waiting. Theresa had prepared a more substantial meal now—still gentle on a fevered system, but with more substance. Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. The kind of food designed to nourish someone back to health.
"How does it taste?" she asked, watching him eat.
Abel chewed slowly. His appetite was still nonexistent, his body still running on the fumes of exhaustion and adrenaline. But he forced the food down because she'd made it, because refusing would raise questions.
"It's delicious," he said, and meant it.
They ate in companionable silence. And when the meal was finished, Theresa cleared the dishes while Abel excused himself and returned to his room.
The moment his door was closed, Abel allowed himself to move.
He opened the package with shaking hands. The wood inside was perfect—ancient pine, at least a hundred years old, the kind of material that was nearly impossible to find in a world where magic didn't naturally occur. It had cost him nearly half a month's allowance, but it was worth every penny.
From beneath his bed, he pulled out his toolkit. Years of accumulated work. Wands that had failed. Wands that were partially completed. Wands that looked perfect but held no power—dead wood, no matter how carefully he'd shaped them.
The problem with making wands in this world was that the wood itself resisted magic. Unlike in his previous life, where magical materials practically sang with potential, this world's wood required coaxing, pleading, force of will combined with precise technique to accept magical imprinting.
But this pine wood was different. It was old enough, dense enough, that it might actually work.
Abel selected a knife from his toolkit—one that had been sharpened and reshaped a hundred times. He'd perfected the technique over six years of trial and error. The wand body had to be exactly thirteen and a half inches, perfectly straight, with the thickness gradually tapering from one end to the other.
His hands moved with practiced precision despite the fever still burning through his system. This was what he was. Not a student. Not a normal teenager. But a wizard, trying to survive in a world that didn't know he existed, using techniques learned in a life that had ended six years ago.
The knife moved through the wood with the certainty of muscle memory. Each cut was deliberate. Each shaping brought the raw material closer to something that could hold magic. His fingers knew what to do even if his mind was fogged with exhaustion.
By the time the rough wand body was complete, several hours had passed. It was 13.5 inches, perfectly straight, tapering smoothly. Ready for the next phase: drilling the core channel, engraving the magical patterns, applying the special oils that would allow the wood to accept and channel magic.
Abel wrapped it carefully and placed it in his supply box beneath the bed.
The work was far from finished. The wand body was just the beginning. He still needed to find or create the core—the magical heart that would make the wand truly functional. In his previous life, that had been phoenix feather or dragon heartstring. Here, he had no idea what might work as a substitute.
But that was a problem for another day. For now, he'd made progress. And progress, no matter how small, was survival.
He lay back on his bed, his body finally admitting defeat to the exhaustion. Somewhere down the hall, his mother was reading or resting, unaware that her son was slowly transforming raw materials into the instruments of his own survival.
The wand would wait. The work would continue. Tomorrow there would be more shaping, more engraving, more careful transformation of wood into something magical.
But tonight, even the wand could wait while Abel slept the sleep of the truly, desperately exhausted.
And in the quiet of the apartment, the rough wand body waited in its box, patient and potential-laden, ready to become something that could change everything.
END CHAPTER 6