CHAPTER FOUR: FIRST STEPS AS A GHOST

The gym was one of those 24-hour places, wedged between a laundromat and a convenience store. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The guy at the front barely looked up as she slid a few crumpled bills across the counter, mumbling something about needing a month’s membership.

The shower was more of a relief than she expected. Hot water streamed over her skin, washing away the grime of the previous day, unknotting tension she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

Afterward, she wiped a hand across the fogged-up mirror, staring at her reflection. Same face. Same tired eyes. But something was different.

She was not the same girl who had been shoved into a locker.

And she still had things to do.

. . . . .

She sat on the worn-out bench in the gym’s locker room, a pair of scissors in her hand, staring at herself in the mirror. Her long, tangled hair hung in uneven strands—still damp from the shower—remnants of a girl who had spent too long clinging to a life that wasn’t hers anymore.

That life had ended the moment she had opened her eyes and seen the world differently. The moment she had survived something she wasn’t supposed to.

Taylor took a deep breath. Then, with swift, decisive cuts, she let it fall away.

Snip. Snip.

Strands of brown hair drifted to the floor.

When she finally looked up again, she barely recognized herself. Her hair was choppy, uneven, just short enough that it wouldn’t get in her way. But she wasn’t aiming for style—just something different. Something practical. Efficient.

She ran a hand through it, exhaling.

This was a small change. But it was a start.

She changed into the spare clothes she had taken from home the night before—an oversized hoodie, dark jeans, and simple sneakers. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. 

She slung her bag over her shoulder and left. 

Brockton Bay had always been ugly, but looking at it now—really looking at it—was different. 

Taylor moved unseen through the streets, keeping to the edges, watching. She wasn’t sure when it had started, this need to observe, to analyze. Maybe it was just what she had always done. Standing at the sidelines, picking apart how things worked. How people moved. How the world ignored what it didn’t want to see.

But now, with her new eyes, she saw everything—the way power shifted from block to block.

The ABB controlled whole blocks, their tags sprayed over storefronts like a warning. Merchants lurked in alleyways, thin and hollow-eyed, lost to their own supply. Empire thugs lounged outside a bar, laughing, their presence alone enough to keep others away.

Then, there was the PRT. 

They moved in their own patterns, maintaining order where it mattered—Wards patrolling the safer districts, PRT vans stationed at the edges of gang territory. Officers standing watch. Waiting. Yet rarely interfering.

And the people? They endured. Like she had.

A system at work.

And like every system, it had cracks.

. . . . .

She found her first problem in a side street just off Lord’s Port Avenue. A woman backed against a brick wall, her purse clutched to her chest. The man in front of her had a knife. 

Taylor acted without thinking.

She stepped forward. “Drop the knife.”

The mugger startled, then turned, sneering when he saw her. “The hell are you supposed to be?”

Taylor didn’t answer. She just walked closer.

He scoffed. “Walk away, girl.”

She didn’t.

The knife flashed in the dim light as he lashed out. It never reached her. His arm stopped, the blade hanging in midair. His eyes widened, breath hitching. He tried to push forward, muscles straining, but the space between them stretched impossibly, untouchable.

Taylor stared at him. 

The knife wavered, then he stumbled back, his grip slackening as confusion twisted his face. “What—”

She took another step forward. He took two back, swearing under his breath, then turned and ran, his footsteps echoing down the alley. The woman was gone, too, vanished the second she had the opportunity.

Taylor let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. 

That had been reckless. Stupid. She didn’t know how to fight. If he hadn’t panicked—

No. Even if he had fought, he wouldn’t have been able to hurt her. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that she hadn’t known what to do. 

Being stronger, being virtually untouchable, didn’t mean she had control. If she had tried to grab the knife, tried to disarm him physically, she would have fumbled it. If he had a gun, she wouldn’t have known how to handle the situation. She had walked in with nothing but a vague sense that she should do something, and that had almost been a disaster.

She was lucky. 

But she couldn't rely on it for long. 

She needed to be better. Smarter. 

She needed a plan.

. . . . .

She walked for hours, thinking. Why had she done that? Why hadn’t she just kept walking?

It wasn’t just about being a hero. She didn’t care about recognition. But she couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

Because she had seen how things worked. And now she couldn’t unsee it.

Because the PRT wouldn’t step in until it was too late.

Because people like Emma and Sophia thrived in systems that let them.

Because she had spent too long being powerless—watching, waiting for someone else to act.

No more.

She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t trained. But she had this. And she wasn’t going to waste it.

Taylor stopped. Stared down the empty street. 

But that wasn’t enough.

She hadn’t won that fight. The man had just been scared off. If he hadn’t panicked, if he’d had more nerve, what then?

If she wanted to make a difference, she needed more than just the ability to avoid getting hurt. She needed a way to fight back.

Taylor pulled her hoodie tighter around herself and kept moving.

She needed to figure out what she could really do.