"Hello, I am Sharon Carter. Well, you can directly call me Sharon. We're about the same age, so it would be strange if you called me aunt."
Abel extended his hand, shaking hers with a polite smile. "Sharon, nice to meet you. I'm Abel Shaw—you can call me Abel."
It was strange, seeing a distant relative after so many years of minimal contact. His mother had lost touch with Sharon's branch of the family almost a decade ago. The sudden reconnection was surprising, but family was family.
"Alright, let's eat," Theresa said warmly, ushering them both toward the table.
Abel was accustomed to his mother's cooking—the precision of her technique, the way she balanced flavors with the confidence of someone who'd spent decades mastering her craft. But for Sharon, it was apparently a revelation. Her eyes widened slightly as she took her first bite. She nearly choked on her own amazement, praising the food repeatedly between bites. By the time dessert arrived, she collapsed back in her chair with a satisfied smile and a hand on her belly.
"Theresa, your cooking skills are incredible. You really deserve to have those three Michelin stars."
Theresa had heard variations of this compliment countless times over the years, but hearing it from Sharon—genuine and enthusiastic—clearly pleased her. The two women fell into easy conversation, laughing and sharing memories.
Abel sat to the side, sipping his digestive tea, his expression thoughtful.
The name Sharon Carter nagged at him. He recognized it somehow, knew it meant something significant, but the specific memory remained frustratingly out of reach. In his previous life, he'd spent more than a decade in the magical world. But most of those memories had faded over time—fuzzy impressions rather than clear recollections. Unless he could create a Pensieve, which required magic he hadn't even attempted yet, there was no way to extract those buried details.
But even if his wand had been successfully created, making a Pensieve was a fantasy. He barely understood the theory behind one.
Forget it. He decided. Best to simply watch and wait. If Sharon had some hidden purpose, if she meant any threat to his mother, he would act. But if she was just a visiting cousin, then there was nothing to worry about.
"Sharon, you should stay the night," Theresa offered. "We have a spare room."
Sharon shook her head politely. "No, I have class early in the morning. I definitely wouldn't want to disturb you. But I'll visit again during a break—I promise."
"Then I'll at least drive you to the subway station," Theresa said. "It's getting late, and I don't want you walking around the city at night."
"Well... if it's no trouble, then yes, thank you."
Theresa collected her keys and jacket, inviting Abel to clean up while she took Sharon to the station. It was an unspoken agreement—kitchens were Theresa's domain, and she had particular standards about how dishes should be handled. The dishwasher, in her professional opinion, simply didn't clean properly. Everything had to be washed by hand.
Abel accepted this without complaint. He cleared the table, rinsed the dishes, and arranged them in the sink. Then he moved on to his homework, checking the shipping status of his second wave of eBay and Amazon orders—everything was in transit, nothing yet delivered.
With his responsibilities handled, Abel retrieved a book he'd been meaning to read for weeks. He settled at his desk with a cup of black tea, allowing himself to simply exist in this moment of peace. The quiet of the apartment, the warmth of the tea, the pages beneath his fingers—it was rare that he got to experience something so genuinely peaceful.
Meanwhile, Theresa pulled up in front of the subway station and said her goodbyes to Sharon.
The drive from downtown Manhattan to the station had taken about thirty minutes. Sharon's school, SUNY Stony Brook, was one of the Ivy League institutions, roughly an hour and a half away from the city center. But the subway would get her there much faster than driving.
Seven or eight in the evening wasn't too late, and the station was still busy with commuters.
As Theresa's car pulled away, Sharon pulled out her phone and dialed a number with practiced efficiency.
"Sir, I'm out," she said simply.
Coulson's voice came through the line, carrying the weight of someone perpetually burdened by difficult decisions. "Sharon, I apologize for asking you to monitor your former friends like this."
"Sir, you know this was my choice," Sharon replied calmly. "Rather than having a strange agent observe them—someone with no connection to them—it's better if someone with a personal relationship does the monitoring. It prevents misunderstandings and allows me to better convey what we need while also better protecting their interests. It's a win-win situation."
"I understand your reasoning, but if something happens, you become the most dangerous person in the equation. You could lose your family entirely. If you want to step back, I'll immediately send another agent. Trust me—they'll be fair and just."
"Sir, I insist on continuing this assignment," Sharon said, her voice steady. "The target we're looking for might be similar to Abel, but I can't be certain it's him. From my observation tonight, I saw nothing suspicious. To me, they appear to be exactly what they seem—an ordinary mother and son. The only thing notable about Abel is that he seems... calm for his age. Nothing unusual beyond that."
Coulson's tone shifted, becoming more grave. "Sharon, Abel matches the profile of the individual most likely responsible for Kilgrave's death. While we have no concrete evidence, the probability that he's our target is over eighty percent. Continue your observations. If necessary, we will have to take action."
Sharon's grip on her phone tightened slightly. "I understand, sir. But I prefer to think of him as the person who saved Jessica Jones, his mom and an entire restaurant, rather than the person who killed Kilgrave."
"Fair enough. I'll note that distinction. This call is concluded."
The line went dead.
Sharon stood in front of the roaring subway entrance, watching the streams of commuters move past her. A sigh escaped her lips—the weight of conflicting loyalties pressing down on her shoulders. As Peggy Carter's niece, she'd grown up with her aunt as her example, her goal in life. But now that her relatives had become operational targets, she was discovering that her conviction wasn't as unshakeable as she'd believed.
I hope Abel isn't that person.
I hope Abel is just... good.
The weekend passed quickly.
Monday morning arrived, and Abel carried his schoolbag out into the early light, riding his bicycle toward school. He parked it carefully and spotted Sean walking across the courtyard, dark circles under his eyes so pronounced they looked almost bruised.
"Sean, why do you look like you haven't slept in a week?" Abel asked with a slight smile.
Sean scratched at his disheveled hair and sighed heavily. "Don't ask. I was trying to beat Assassin's Creed last night, but that game is absolutely brutal. I played for hours and hours. By the time I finally gave up, the sky was already turning light outside."
"I hope you don't fall asleep in class. You know how Mr. Frey feels about that. She's not going to be lenient."
"Yeah, I know. I'm already regretting the whole thing, honestly. Sleep would have been the smarter choice."
Sean was still talking, still complaining about his gaming marathon, but Abel's attention had already shifted. Something had caught his awareness—a presence that made his entire body tense.
A girl was walking into the school from the outside, and what Abel sensed radiating from her made his blood run cold.
Evil.
Not the petty malice of a teenage bully. Not the casual cruelty of someone who enjoyed hurting others. This was something far deeper, far more profound. The kind of evil that emanated from her like a physical force—pure, concentrated, ancient beyond measure. Abel had encountered Death Eaters in his previous life. He'd felt their darkness, their willingness to do terrible things for their master.
But this girl's aura made even the darkest Death Eater look like a flickering candlelight.
The only thing that even compared in Abel's memory was the feeling of a Dementor—that soul-sucking, hope-draining presence that seemed to drain the very light from the world. This girl carried that same quality, that same absolute wrongness.
Abel's hands clenched involuntarily.
A person radiating that kind of evil, present in his school, among his peers, near his life—problems would inevitably follow. There was no way around it. Where that kind of darkness went, chaos and suffering were sure to follow.
He would need to watch her very carefully.
END CHAPTER 8