"Hi Abel! We're planning a party tonight. You should come."
Rebecca slid into the seat across from him with that smug little grin—the one that said she thought the world literally revolved around her invitation. Her perfectly curled hair bounced as she leaned forward, invading his personal space with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no in her life.
Abel forced a smile. "I can't. Mom needs me at the restaurant tonight. Maybe next week."
Translation: Not a chance in hell.
Rebecca's parties were infamous throughout Midtown—loud music that rattled the windows, reckless people making even more reckless decisions, and zero survival instinct among any of the attendees. Abel had better odds surviving a Death Eater ambush than her idea of fun.
She pouted, her big brown eyes sparkling with theatrical frustration. "You've turned me down three times already. If you say no again, I'll start thinking you don't like me." She jabbed a finger at him. "Next week. You can't say no."
Abel raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I won't say no next week."
"Good." Her pout transformed into a victorious smile. "See you next week!"
"See you next week," Abel muttered, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as she flounced away.
He made it halfway to the door before a familiar blur of chaotic energy intercepted him.
"Abel!" Sean materialized at his side, practically vibrating with curiosity. "I just saw Rebecca talking to you. What'd she say? What'd you say? Did she finally ask you out? Please tell me you didn't—"
"She invited me to a party. I said no."
Sean froze mid-step. His eyes went comically wide, like Abel had just announced he was secretly an alien.
"Again?" Sean grabbed Abel's shoulders, shaking him slightly. "That's three times, man! Three! My brother, the universe's most confusing romantic enigma." He released Abel and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Rebecca is the prettiest girl in our school! If you keep turning her down, people are gonna start thinking you're—"
"Sean." Abel cut him off with a raised eyebrow. "She's hardly in the top five."
"I—what?"
"Have you seen Mary Jane Watson? Felicia Hardy? Or even Gwen in our AP Physics class?" Abel ticked off the names on his fingers, watching Sean's expression cycle through confusion, consideration, and reluctant agreement. "I just don't feel that spark with Rebecca. It's not about looks. Sometimes you like someone, sometimes you don't. That's all."
Sean blinked at him, clearly baffled—like Abel had just explained quantum entanglement using interpretive dance.
"Okay, but..." Sean squinted. "You forgot Liz Allen."
Abel snorted. "To each their own."
They walked together toward the exit, weaving through the stream of students eager to escape into the weekend. The hallway buzzed with conversation—plans for parties, complaints about homework, the usual Friday afternoon chaos.
"Anyway, I'm off," Abel said, pushing open the front door. Warm afternoon air washed over them, carrying the distant smell of hot dogs from a street vendor. "I need to go help Mom. By the way, have you seen Peter?"
Sean's brow furrowed. "Now that you mention it... wasn't he supposed to be back from the field trip by now?"
"That's what I was thinking."
Abel kept his voice casual, but his mind was already racing. Oscorp. The field trip. The spider.
So it's really today.
Somewhere across the city, Peter Parker was probably stumbling home, feeling strange, not yet understanding that his entire life had just changed. By Monday, he'd be climbing walls. By next month, he'd be stopping muggers in a homemade costume.
And eventually, he'd become one of the greatest heroes the world had ever known.
Abel felt a strange mix of excitement and melancholy. He'd grown to like Peter over the past few weeks—the kid was awkward and earnest and painfully genuine in a way that reminded Abel of another bespectacled hero from a different life.
He hoped the spider bite wouldn't hurt too much.
"Well," Abel said, mounting his bike, "I'll call Mrs. Parker tonight. Make sure he's okay. See you Monday."
"See you Monday!" Sean called after him, already distracted by something on his phone.
Abel pedaled away, leaving Midtown behind.
The bike ride to his mom's restaurant was Abel's favorite part of the day.
Streets buzzing with life. Car horns honking in that aggressive-but-somehow-familiar New York rhythm. The smell of fresh bagels from a corner bakery mixing with exhaust fumes and the faint sweetness of a nearby fruit stand.
The peculiar perfume of the city in the afternoon. Chaos—but his chaos. The kind he understood.
He weaved through traffic with practiced ease, muscles warm from the ride, mind pleasantly empty. For these fifteen minutes, he wasn't a twice-reborn soul carrying the weight of future knowledge. He wasn't a failed wizard or a future victim of cosmic genocide.
He was just a teenager biking to see his mom.
The restaurant came into view—a surprisingly serene establishment tucked into a bustling corner near Brooklyn. While the surrounding streets hummed with noise and motion, the restaurant itself projected an air of quiet sophistication. Natural wood paneling. Living plants cascading from window boxes. Warm lighting visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Mom had helped design the interior herself, and Abel had always appreciated her taste. Fresh. Organic. Welcoming without being pretentious.
He parked his bike in the usual spot, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and approached the entrance with a casual wave already forming.
"Hey, Marcus—"
The doorman didn't respond.
Abel's hand hung awkwardly in the air. Marcus stood at his post like always—tall, broad-shouldered, perpetually cheerful. But today, his face was blank. Empty. His eyes stared straight ahead, fixed on nothing.
No wave. No nod. No "Hey kid, how was school?" like usual.
Weird.
Abel lowered his hand slowly, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine.
Maybe he's just in a mood, he told himself. His wife's due date is coming up, right? Probably stressed about diaper prices. Hospital bills. Normal new-dad stuff.
But even as he thought it, he didn't believe it.
Abel took a step toward the door.
Marcus's hand shot up, palm out, blocking his path. The movement was sharp. Mechanical. Wrong.
"The restaurant has been booked." Marcus's voice was flat, devoid of any warmth or recognition. "No entry allowed."
The words hit Abel like ice water.
He'd heard that tone before. Seen those empty eyes before. In another life, in another world, watching victims of the Imperius Curse move like puppets on strings.
This was different—the magical signature felt off, not quite the same pattern—but the sickness was familiar. The violation. Someone had reached into Marcus's mind and hollowed him out, leaving only obedience behind.
Abel's stomach twisted.
If the doorman was under control...
Mom.
Panic clawed at his chest, but he forced it down with practiced discipline. Panic was death. Panic made you sloppy. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, watching friends make fatal mistakes in the heat of battle.
Think. Assess. Act.
Rushing through the front door would accomplish nothing except alerting whoever was inside. If they were powerful enough to mind-control Marcus—and probably others—Abel needed every advantage he could get.
He stepped back from the entrance, feigning casual disappointment. "Oh, booked? That's too bad. I'll come back later."
Marcus didn't respond. Didn't even blink.
Abel walked away, rounding the corner of the building like he was heading back to his bike. The moment he was out of sight, he broke into a sprint.
The service entrance was exactly where he remembered—a narrow alley that smelled like garbage, grease, and the lingering ghost of a thousand late-night prep sessions. Metal dumpsters lined one wall, overflowing with vegetable scraps and cardboard boxes. A single flickering light buzzed overhead, casting stuttering shadows.
Abel tried the door handle.
Locked. Of course.
He glanced around, confirming he was alone, then raised his right hand. Palm facing the lock. Fingers spread.
This was going to suck.
Wandless magic had never been his strong suit. Back at Hogwarts, he'd relied on his wand like a crutch, never bothering to develop the raw control that wandless casting required. Stupid. Arrogant. The kind of mistake that got people killed.
Now, trapped in a new body with a magical core still rebuilding from scratch, he was paying for that laziness. Five weeks of practice had gotten him to the point where he could maybe manage a first-year spell without passing out.
Maybe.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for that familiar warmth—the current of energy that flowed through every fiber of his being. It was faint, so much fainter than it used to be, but it was there. His magic.
The only weapon he had.
"Alohomora."
The word left his lips as a whisper. Magic surged from is magic core, passing by his heart, through his arm, out his palm—and into the lock mechanism. He felt the tumblers shift, the pins align, the latch release.
Click.
The door swung open.
Abel exhaled shakily, his hand trembling from the exertion. Such a simple spell, and it had taken a lot of mana. If he ran into actual resistance in there...
Don't think about it. Move.
He slipped inside and eased the door shut behind him.
Heat hit his face immediately—the sweltering, humid warmth of a professional kitchen in full operation. Clanging pans. Sizzling oil. Steam billowing from industrial stovetops. Voices calling orders back and forth in the controlled chaos that Abel had come to know from is multiples visites.
Except something was wrong.
The voices were too flat. The movements too mechanical. He crept forward, pressing himself against the wall, and peered around a shelf of dry goods.
The kitchen staff moved like automatons, each one performing their tasks with eerie precision. No jokes. No complaints. No personality. Just cooking. Just serving.
And there, at the center of the storm, stood his mother.
Theresa Shaw worked at her station with the same robotic efficiency as the others. Her ginger hair was pulled back in its usual bun, her chef's whites immaculate, her hands moving with practiced skill. But her eyes...
Her eyes were empty.
"Abel."
She'd spotted him. Turned to face him. Her voice was flat, hollow, wrong.
"I cannot talk. Focus on cooking." A pause. Something flickered behind those glassy eyes—recognition, maybe, or the ghost of maternal instinct struggling against whatever held her. "The master must eat."
The master.
Abel's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. Rage boiled up from somewhere deep inside him—hot, violent, hungry.
Someone had done this to her. Someone had reached into his mother's mind and turned her into a puppet. A slave.
They were going to pay.
But first, he had to free her.
Abel moved fast, closing the distance before she could react. His body remembered the training even when his mind was clouded with fury—the pressure point on the neck, the precise angle, the exact amount of force and mana required to induce unconsciousness without causing harm.
"Sorry, Mom," he breathed. "You can yell at me later."
He pressed.
Theresa's eyes rolled back. Her body went limp, slumping into his arms. He caught her, lowering her gently to the floor behind a prep station, hidden from casual view.
His hands were shaking.
She'd wake up soon—confused, probably furious, definitely with a headache. But she'd be herself. Free from whatever sick compulsion had been controlling her.
That was what mattered.
Abel scanned the kitchen. The rest of the staff continued their work, oblivious to what had just happened. They moved in perfect synchronization, each focused entirely on their assigned task.
No one had noticed him. Not yet.
Whoever this "master" is, they know how to get inside people's heads.
Mind control on this scale wasn't easy. Even the Imperius Curse required significant magical power and concentration to maintain over multiple targets. Whatever was happening here, whoever was responsible, they were dangerous.
And they'd made a very, very big mistake.
They'd targeted his mom.
Abel melted into the shadows between prep stations, moving with the silent grace that three years of war had drilled into him. The kitchen opened into a service hallway, which connected to the main dining area. If the "master" was anywhere, they'd be out front, enjoying the fruits of their conquest.
Time to find out who had booked this private show.
And why they'd wanted his mother on stage.
He found the answer in the main dining room.
The space had been transformed. Tables pushed aside, chairs arranged in a semicircle around a single central seat—more throne than chair, ornate and golden, clearly brought in for the occasion. Candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
And there, lounging on that ridiculous throne, was a man.
He was handsome in an unsettling way—sharp features, dark hair slicked back, a tailored suit that probably cost more than Abel's mom made in a month. But it was his eyes that caught Abel's attention. They glittered with amusement. With hunger.
With power.
Two more staff members stood at attention beside him, faces blank, waiting for orders that might never come. A wine glass dangled from his fingers, the red liquid inside catching the candlelight.