(LIMITLESS) CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: POUND OF FLESH

The first time Taylor had fought Hookwolf, she’d been desperate—still new to her power, still unsure of what she could do, let alone control the ones she was aware of. Back then, she’d bled. Fled. Survived by inches.

This time was different.

This time, she was calm. Focused.

Gallant had taken a step back the moment she pulled free from his grasp—an unspoken acknowledgment that the fight was beyond the purview of the instructions they were given. There would be no protocols here. No radioing in for backup or waiting for backup. Just Taylor and the man whose gang had taken everything from her.

She didn’t need permission. She needed catharsis.

And she took it. 

Hookwolf lunged. Metal screeched as they erupted from his skin mid-step. Blades curved and spun around him in a mess of sharpened steel of all kind—bone saws, claws, and spikes meant to maim and rip anything softer than him into shreds

And he slammed into her forcefield.

His momentum bled away, even as he strained with all his might, each fraction of motion slowed into infinity, reduced to a crawl just inches from her. 

As always, Taylor didn’t even blink. Her gaze was flat. Bored, even.

“Is this what passes for terrifying now?” she murmured.

Then she moved.

A twist of her wrist. A silent pull.

Blue.

Hookwolf was yanked sideways by the collapsing point in space, his body flung off balance. He howled, blades clanging against the floor, as he crashed through a row of cages, snapping wood and metal as he tumbled across the warehouse floor.

Taylor followed.

Her step was light, casual, almost lazy as she walked behind him. She reached him just as he stumbled to his feet, turning fast—rage in his eyes—but it didn’t matter. Before he could do more than brace for an attack, she touched his shoulder.

And pushed.

Not physically. Not really.

She pushed with Red.

Her control over it was still tentative, but that didn't matter at so close a range. A flare of divergent force exploded out from her palm, and Hookwolf screamed as he was launched backwards, tearing through a crate and embedding in a concrete pillar with a sickening crack. The structure groaned under the impact, shaking dust from the ceiling and loose woodwork. His body twitched, metal shivering and reforming around him.

He didn’t stay down.

Good.

Taylor exhaled, rolling her shoulders and re-centering her weight.

This wasn’t heroism. It wasn’t justice either.

This wasn’t a fight to save civilians or hold the line for the PRT.

This was repayment of a blood debt.

This was for Keith.

Personal. Messy. Ugly. But she didn’t care.

Hookwolf charged again, roaring, metal shrieking as his body twisted into something less and less wolf-like. He swung wide, a spinning blade curling into vicious arcs, trying to find a way around her field, trying to trick physics into letting him connect.

She gave him hope—let him think he could do the impossible and breach it.

Then she stepped again—lightly, easily—using Blue to pivot and twist away from a wide slash, dragging herself out of reach while pulling his momentum against him. He stumbled. And in the heartbeat it took him to recover—

She was already behind him.

“Still think you’re the most powerful between us?” she asked, voice cool.

“You’re not invincible,” he snarled, whirling.

“No,” she said. “But I’m close enough.”

He lunged.

She stopped him.

Her power surged.

This time she pressed down with the full weight of her forcefield, collapsing space with its crushing presence. Not enough to kill—she didn’t want him dead.

Hookwolf dropped like a stone, the ground cratering beneath him, and his blades retracted instinctively under the pressure. His breath hitched, caught, and turned into a gasp.

He couldn’t move.

Taylor circled slowly.

“Maybe any asshole can spray a wall with your tag,” she said. “Maybe it wasn’t your hand on the lighter. But it was your gang, your symbol everyone saw. That means your name’s on it, and so you will have to pay.”

Hookwolf didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So she stepped back—just slightly—and released the pressure for a heartbeat. 

He tried to rise.

She dropped it again, harder.

The resulting howl was a mixture of frustration and pain.

Gallant shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the warehouse, watching but not interfering. Not that he even could. 

But Taylor felt the intensity of his gaze on her. She didn’t blame him.

She was just playing with Hookwolf at this point. 

At least he trusted her enough to know she wouldn't kill him.

“You know,” she said quietly, kneeling. 

She was close now—so close he could have struck her, if she hadn’t rendered him helpless. It became a reminder of the gap in power between them, between her and most other capes. 

“There’s this thing I’ve learned,” she continued. “Some people don’t respond to warnings. Or reason. Or even fear. They only understand power.”

Her eyes were cold beneath her mask as she leaned forward.

“So this is me. Forcing you to understand.”

She let the pressure lift again.

Hookwolf didn’t rise this time. He just lay there, twitching faintly, the metal of his body refusing to grow. Something deep in him—maybe instinct, maybe a very old fear—understood it was useless.

Taylor stood. Adjusted her jacket.

She didn’t look back at him.

“You’re lucky,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m feeling merciful today.”

And then, without another word, she turned away from him, doing nothing to stop him from dragging himself out. 

Gallant moved close to her, still silent. His visor was down, so she couldn't see his expression, but she could sense the tension in his shoulders.

“You’re going to report this?” she asked, tone almost distant.

There was a moment of hesitation, as if he was considering something, then:

“Only if someone asks.”

Outside the warehouse, the street was still empty, and despite the time spent inside, it was still a long way from morning.

Taylor let the breath she didn't even know she’d been holding slip past her lips.

Her actions hadn’t solved anything. It hadn’t brought Keith back. The Empire was still out there.

But for the first time in days, her body felt like her own again.

No guilt over her inaction. No shaking hands from sheer anger.

Just a silver of peace.

And in Brockton Bay, peace was a rare currency.

So she intended to treasure it dearly.