INTERLUDE: AN UNTOUCHABLE PROBLEM

Taylor had known this would happen eventually.

Word spread fast in Brockton Bay, especially in the parts of the city ruled by fear. Gangs thrived on control, on the certainty that no one could cross them and get away with it. And for the past week, someone had been proving them wrong.

A nobody in a hoodie. A girl who should have been easy to break.

Except no one could touch her.

The first sign that word had spread came when she spotted a group of Merchants lingering near the mouth of an alley. They weren’t dealing, weren’t slumped in drugged-out stupors like usual. They were watching. Looking for someone.

Looking for her.

She kept walking. Her hoodie was pulled low, her hands in her pockets, but she could feel their eyes track her until she turned the corner.

They knew.

And if they knew, then the rest of the city wouldn’t be far behind.

. . . . .

The second time, she didn’t have the luxury of walking away.

It happened in a back alley in Merchant territory, not far from the docks. She had barely stepped off the curb when she felt it: a shift in the air, the prickling sensation of being watched.

Then footsteps—several pairs, moving fast.

She turned.

Five men. One of them, a wiry guy with a crooked grin, lifted a length of rebar and smacked it into his palm. “Heard you’ve been making trouble.”

Taylor didn’t answer.

Another man, taller, broader, pulled a knife. “Boss wants to know what your deal is.”

Taylor exhaled slowly. Think.

Running wouldn’t work—they had her boxed in. Talking wouldn’t work either. They were obviously not interested in conversation.

So she did the only thing she could.

She stepped forward.

The man with the knife lunged. It went about as expected—the blade stopping an inch from her ribs, the mugger’s arm jerking to a stop, and his body stumbling forward as if he had walked into an invisible wall.

“What the—”

Another man swung the rebar. It never landed.

The group froze.

“What the fuck is she?” one of them muttered.

Taylor didn’t have an answer for that.

One of them swore under his breath. The biggest one—the leader—reached for his waistband. Taylor saw the motion, the flash of metal.

A gun.

Her stomach clenched.

He aimed, finger tightening on the trigger.

The shot rang out.

The bullet never reached her. The moment it crossed into her space, it slowed, slowed more, then stopped, hovering for the briefest moment before dropping harmlessly to the pavement.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The men stared at the bullet. Then at her.

“Fuck this,” someone muttered.

They ran.

Taylor didn’t stop them.

She stood there. Watching the last of them disappear into the night, knowing they’d tell others. Knew that next time, they’d come back with more.

She sighed.

. . . . .

By morning, the rumors had spread.

Not just in the underworld, but everywhere.

People were talking.

There was a ghost in Brockton Bay. A cape who couldn’t be touched by blades or bullets.

ABB and Empire crews started asking questions. The Merchants were already scared—thinking she was personally gunning after them.

And anyone from Winslow already knew exactly who that girl had to be.

Taylor Hebert wasn’t a secret. Not really.