The bar was low-lit and smoky; Anja could taste the tobacco as it floated in the air and through her nose, up her lungs. She hated it down there, and she hated the huddled groups of men with their decks of cards and half-empty whiskey bottles. It was cheap and seedy and with a sharp rage, Anja let a chilling panic spread through its inhabitants, her eyes careful on one olive green ivy cap.

Mick could sense the chill. Anja watched it grow on him as he straightened his back out, limbs stiff. He seemed to be the only one at that round table, cards in hand, to know where the sudden and cutting fear came from. He turned his head to see a seething Anja, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed over her chest. He gulped.

Anja pushed off the frame and stomped back up the stairs, stepping out into the daylight once more. The narrow alley was bustling with heavy black garbage bags sitting in the hot sun but at least it was better than down there. She couldn't stand the darkness and the smell and the people. Settling against the wall, Anja watched, waiting for him to burst through the door with his excuses and with his pleas. The sun beat down on her relentless, beads of sweat popping up on her forehead. She couldn't stand that either.

Mick was a kid. Just eighteen with skinny limbs and a head too big for them. And he was slimy. Slippery and quick, wiggling fingers that switch out cards and reach deep into pockets before you could blink. Anja didn't trust him but she was the only one who could catch him. She filled him up with sticky guilt when he tried to fill his pockets with money from the girls they helped and made him choke on his slick tongue when he tried to get quick with her. And once you slowed a guy like that down, trapped in his own sticky lies, they were putty.

He burst through the door with a wide eyed, wide mouth panic, heart thumping so hard Anja could feel it in her own chest. She gave him a cool glare, arms crossed and mouth neutral. "Anja," he started, pleading with his hands and pleading with his eyes and pleading with his tone, "whatever you think I did wrong, I didn't! I've been perfect all week, no slip-ups, I swear. Alright?"

"Yeah?" Anja countered. "Tell me why Spider-Man was at my spot last night, then."

The kid deflated, wild curly hair whipping in the wind while the color drained from his face. "Sp-spider-Man? Spider-Man, he was, he was there? Last night? At y-your?"

"My spot, yeah!" Anja nodded, frustration seeping into her tone. She was never good at maintaining neutrality when it came to Mick. "Are you tryna get me killed out here dude?"

"Anja, I swear, I did my checks I think, it must have been, I don't know! Maybe, fuck, Anja, I'm so sorry." He sucked in air between his teeth, hands rubbing together and Anja was staring at him wondering how he could be so smart and so stupid and how he could stand to be out here in the heat with those fucking jeans on. "Who was it?"

She kept her narrowed eyes trained on him. "Little blonde girl. Big green eyes, covered in those bruises. Maybe fifteen, sixteen."

Mick tilted his head, back and forth, knocking the image of different girls in and out of his head like a slot machine. He paused. "Oh, little blonde girl that's Ke-"

"Don't!" Anja interrupted, a shocking severity in her voice that left Mick frozen. "Don't tell me the girls' fucking names, Mick. C'mon what the fuck do you think we're doing here?"

He groaned. "Shit, Anja, I'm sorry, I'm s-"

"Are you on the street handing my name out to these girls? To the people who ask about me? Is that how I ended up trapped in a fifth story apartment with a fucking Avenger?"

"No, I'm sorry, I know. No names, no names," he rushed out, voice hitched.

"Jesus fuck," she groaned, letting her back drop against the wall of the building, eyes closed and frustration washed over her. She let out a breath, and turned to Mick. "I got somewhere I need to be tomorrow night. I need you to go back and make sure that something like this isn't gonna happen again, alright?"

Mick faltered. "Wh-wha-whaddya want me to do?" he tripped.

"I dunno!" Anja snapped. "Make sure Captain America isn't gonna read me my fucking Miranda rights when I come through the window. You need to figure it out, Mick, this is why I brought you on board."

He sighed, pursing his lips and giving Anja that look. "Maybe, maybe you just shouldn't go out for a bit? Maybe just lay low until you're off their radar?"

"No," Anja insisted without hesitation, voice like metal. "Not an option."

Mick looked down at the ground , wringing his hands together. Anja made him nervous, even when she wasn't trying to. And it wasn't even the fact that she could kick his ass-a lot of people could kick Mick's ass. There was just something about her. Something that made him sweat. "I'll scrap the burner. Someone probably got a hold of the number. I'll get a new one and pass it onto the girls on Roosevelt Ave."

"No," Anja said, and then stopped, frowning. "I mean, yeah, get a new one and spread that number. But keep the old one. Set up some fake hits on that one and make sure the right girls have the right number, got it?"

He gave her a firm nod. "Got it."

"And we're switching out the burner once a week, alright? Tell the girls on Roosevelt."

"I will."

There was a pause, a brief moment when Anja's anger had drained and Mick was feeling bold. His eyes flickered between her and the floor, and he said, "It's not good, you know, that you're on his radar now." Anja tilted her head, watching the big with careful eyes. "I mean, before, before no one but the right people knew about what you were doing. But if you've got an Avenger after you, it's not long before…," he trailed off, words lost on him. He had the sentiment but not the formation.

It was rare when Anja gave him a smile. This one was bitter, lopsided and weak. "Whatever. I'm not afraid of some bug."

"No, no please! I promise I'll never hurt another girl again, I swear! Please!"

"Oh, shut up," Anja groaned, voice bubbling with disgust at the groveling man before her. She took the toe of her boot and slammed it in his rib, satisfied with the cracking sound that echoed in her ears. He wailed, curling tighter into a ball on his pretty white rug. Anja glared through the holes of her mask, crouching down with her hands resting on her knees. "Tell me buddy," she inquired, eyes dark, "what were their names?"

His lower lip, wet and glistening with spit and blood, quivered at the question. His eyes were searching Anja's, and she saw them. Defenseless, tired women with track marks and dirty clothes and fear in their eyes. That was all she could get from him, the fear in their eyes. That was all that mattered to him, anyways. That's all they were to him. Unworthy of names and unworthy of memory. Anja fought back against her gags.

She could feel it too, the fear. But not theirs, his. It was gripping his chest, ice cold and sharp; his heart pumping blood so fast Anja could practically hear it rushing through his veins. Nothing came from his lips but pathetic whimpers and half spoken, "please"'s over and over. Anja's stare was indifferent, and without another word, Anja reached down and placed both of her hands another his neck, around his jaw, and with a twist, he went limp. It was quiet.

It was an extraordinary thing, to take someone's life. Anja threw up, the first time. It was messier when she didn't know what she was doing, and the stench of his blood and his sweat had lingered on Anja for hours after, becoming stale and becoming a part of her. She remembered just sitting there, watching his lifeless body and thinking I did that, I did that, I did that over and over until the bile hit her throat and it became real. She was thirteen.

Anja watched with bated breath as his eyes glossed over and the frantic beating of her heart slowed. That's always how she knew; everything went quiet when their life left them. It was her favorite part, or, the most tolerable part; that brief moment when she could catch her brief and feel the relief of getting another predator off the street before the sour taste settled on her tongue.

You never really get used to it, the killing. At least, Anja didn't. It always made her feel sick, uneasy and vile.

She bent down to his level again, flipping him from his side to his back, so he stared up at the ceiling. Anja reached into his pocket and fished out a thick brown leather wallet. Two-hundred cash. Anja pocketed it; it's not like he needed it anymore.

She always emptied their pockets but she didn't always kill them. Killing was a last resort, reserved for those special men, the ones who killed, the ones who left marks that couldn't ever be erased, the ones who couldn't be stopped any other way. Those were the ones who deserved it, the ones who needed to be squashed under Anja's boot.

There were more of them than she liked to admit.

Anja stood, staring down at the limp body for just a moment before slipping out his window.

"Are you homeless?"

Face red, Anja scoffed. "No," she retorted, locking her fingers over her exposed belly. The bar creaked under her weight, squealing as her knees adjusted. The little girl in front of her looked almost alien upside-down. "Who told you I was homeless?"

The little girl shrugged. "My mommy. I heard her tell her friend that you live here cause you can't afford a place to live cause you like drugs. But she doesn't know I heard her. But I know what drugs are."

"Yeah, what are they?"

"They're like medicine that are like candy and they make you sick."

Anja rolled her eyes, unhooking one of her legs from the bar and reaching up to grab it with her hands. She straightened out, landing up right on her feet and turning back to the little girl. "Alright," she said, kneeling and placing a hand on her shoulder, "I need you to do me a favor and pass a message along to your mom, alright, uh, what's your name?"

"Emma," the little girl replied, and grinned. She was missing two teeth. "I'm gonna be six in two months."

Anja nodded gravely. "Alright Emma, here's what I need you to do. I need you to go up to your mom after practice and tell her," Anja paused, looking around for any snitches, and then she leaned close into Emma's ear.

The little girl listened to the whispers and then giggled, leaning back away from Anja. "What's a cu-"

"No, no, no!" Anja rushed out, "don't say it until after practice, alright? And if she asks, my name's Heather. Can you remember that?"

Little Emma smiled. "Sure thing, Heather "

"Good girl. Now run along, before someone sees you talking to me."

Anja watched with slumped shoulders as the little girl ran away giggling, her little ravioli fists tight by her side. Stavros would have her head for that one.

With a gentle humph, Anja jumped up again, reached for the bars and swung her legs over. She wouldn't admit it, but she was getting bored with the bars and the swinging and the kicking and between scaling apartments and long hours at the gym, she was starting to get a little worried her arms might fall off.

Anja swung up, holding herself upright in a handstand on the lower bar, before dropping, bending at the hips and then swinging towards the higher bar with a twist. The skin on her palms burned as she clutched onto the bar, rotating around a few more times before dropping to the ground. She could bother with a proper dismount.

"Piked stalder, very impressive." Anja rolled her eyes at the voice of Stavros approaching her. His look was too severe, eyes flat and Anja couldn't see past his bushy walrus mustache and goatee but he must've been frowning. "You know, I actually think you're getting better."

Anja reached for the lower bar again, pulling herself up and staring down at the man. "What do you want, Stavros?"

He sighed, shifting his weight between his legs. "Do you want to work here, Anja?"

"No."

"I'm serious."

Anja snorted. "Me too."

Stavros rubbed his eyes before dropping his hands to his side. "Look, I need someone to coach the level nine's. They're old enough and skilled enough for you not to get frustrated and I think you could, y'know, really get them into shape."

Laughter bubbled in Anja's chest. "I thought you wanted me outta here. Now you're offering me a job? What gives, Stavros?"

He shrugged. "You're skilled Anja, what can I say?"

"I thought I was sloppy."

Stavros wasn't amused. He never was but he was never this serious either. He stared at Anja for a while, gaze flat and unimpressed. She gave him a grin. "Think about it, will you?"

She wouldn't. "Sure, I will."

Stavros rolled his eyes, and walked away without another word.

The grainy footage showed a skinny kid stopping an SVU with the balls of his feet while his arms cling to a barely visible web. Anja had watched the video dozens of times, but she could make sense of it. She couldn't. She watched this skinny little kid stop cars and dodge bullets and fling himself up skyscrapers. He climbed walls and took blows that should've killed him easily. An uneasy feeling gnawed in her stomach. "Is it the gloves?" Anja asked, leaning back into her desk chair and staring harshly at her laptop. Her eyes burned. "Adhesive gloves?"

"No, I really don't think so. I can't think of any material that has that grip and release. He's never lost his hold, not even once," Mick explained on the other line. Anja gnawed on her bottom lip, phone pressed hard against her cheek. "I think it's his skin. I think he can just do that."

A groan of frustration grumbled low in Anja's chest. "Well what about the webs? I don't think that shit's coming out of him."

Mick chucked on the other line. "No, I think he gets that from Stark or something. I dunno what it is but I think that's in his suit."

Anja sat up, encouraged. "Okay, okay, that's good. If that sticky shit is coming from his suit then that means I could probably break it? Disable it somehow?"

"Yeah, if you can get that close," Mick snickered, and Anja glowered. "But hey, if you can play your little mind games well enough to trick him into letting you just walk away, then I'm sure you can disarm him enough for you to get in close enough to snap both of his wrists."

"I dunno how well my little mind games are gonna serve me here," Anja murmured. "I didn't see him coming."

"Yeah, but you still altered his sight."

"Yeah, but I still didn't see him," Anja shot back.

There was shuffling on the other end of the phone and an exasperated sigh from Mick. "Listen, Anja, we don't know how your brain works, alright? We don't know why you can do the things that you do-"

"I know," she growled.

"-so we can't know what affects the things that you do. There are too many factors. Once we understand you better, we can understand your limitations and what causes them."

Anja clamped down on her lip and started at the screen, reaching over to play the next video: Spider-Man Kicks Bad Guy Ass! Anna grimaced. She didn't want to see herself in their place. "I've never had limitations before," she complained.

"You've never faced a superhero before. You were unprepared and he caught you off guard. You've never even been caught off guard before! But you'll be expecting him from now on. Just watch the videos I send you and study his style. He's gotta have some kinda weakness."

Anja wasn't in the mood to be lectured and bossed by Mick and she definitely wasn't in the mood to admit that the little twerp was right. She just sighed into her phone and said. "Whatever. I'll just see you tomorrow. Got my list of dates ready?"

"I mean, I will have it ready by the time-"

Anja snapped her phone shut.