Chapter 1: The Spell and the Smackdown
The air in the Underground was thick enough to chew. It tasted of wet concrete, stale beer, and the electric buzz of violence waiting to happen. Kara Danvers adjusted the red gloves on her hands, the leather creaking. The ropes of the ring felt flimsy under her back. She grinned, a quick, effortless flash of white. This was almost cute.
Below, a sea of masked faces stared up, their eyes dark holes in the flickering neon. A tuxedo here, a lace gown there.They were silent. Not the usual roar of a fight crowd. This was a different kind of hunger.
“You sure about this, Kara?” a voice chirped in her earpiece. “The thermal scan is... weird. Lots of cold spots. And that banner? ‘For the Bats of Arkham’? That’s not a real charity.”
“Relax, Winn,” Kara whispered, her lips barely moving. “It’s an exhibition. For a good cause. And it’s not like she can hurt me.” She glanced across the ring.
Wednesday Addams stood perfectly still in her corner, a stark slash of black in the gloom. Her boxing gloves were the color of dried blood, her expression carved from marble. Beside her, an older woman with a wild nest of gray hair fussed with her robe, whispering something that made Wednesday’s head tilt a fraction of an inch.
The bell clanged, a harsh, jarring sound that echoed off the tunnel walls.
Kara bounced forward, light on her feet. She’d watched human boxing. She knew the forms. She led with a playful jab, pulling it back at the last second. It wasn’t about hitting. It was about proving a point. See? I can play your game.
Wednesday slid away, her movement fluid and unnervingly quiet. No grunt of effort, no sharp exhale. She just… repositioned.
Kara threw another combination, the air whistling around her controlled, human-speed fists. They were a blur to anyone watching, but to her, it was a slow-motion d
Kara threw another combination, the air whistling around her controlled, human-speed fists. They were a blur to anyone watching, but to her, it was a slow-motion dance. Or it should have been.
Her right cross aimed for Wednesday’s shoulder, a touchpoint, a nod. It met empty air. Wednesday’s head tilted two inches to the left, her dark eyes unblinking.
A flicker of irritation. Kara pushed it down.Play the game. She shifted, feet planted wrong, and launched a left hook. Wednesday didn’t even lean back. She just rotated her torso, letting the glove whisper past the black silk of her top.
The crowd murmured, a low, appreciative hum.
Kara swung again. A straight jab.Whiff. A wide, looping right.Whiff. Her breaths started coming harder, not from effort, but from confusion. The tunnel felt closer, the air denser. She wasn’t pulling punches anymore; she was missing.Entirely.
Wednesday moved with a dancer’s grace, a silent, economical shifting of weight. Her feet barely seemed to leave the canvas. She was a shadow Kara couldn’t catch.
“What’s…” Kara panted, not to Wednesday, but to herself. Her arms felt leaden. The gloves, which had felt like nothing, now felt like sacks of sand tied to her wrists.
She swung over and over. Her form, never trained, collapsed into clumsy, wind-milling arcs. Each miss pulled her off balance. The cheers from the masked spectators grew louder with every whiff. They thought it was brilliant showmanship, the mighty Supergirl toying with her opponent.
Sweat stung Kara’s eyes. A lactic burn she hadn’t felt since childhood cramped in her deltoids. Her heart was a frantic, pounding drum in her chest—a human heart, straining.
Wednesday just watched. Her expression hadn’t changed. No smirk, no glare. Just observation. It was more unnerving than any taunt.
The bell rang, a sharp, metallic clang of salvation.
Kara stumbled back to her corner, the ropes catching her like a net. She slumped onto the stool, her chest heaving. Her breath sawed in and out of her throat, raw and loud in her ears. She could hear the crowd’s applause, the whistles. They were loving it.
Across the ring, Wednesday lowered herself onto her stool with a serene posture. Grandmama Addams dabbed at her brow with a cloth that might have been black velvet. Not a single drop of sweat. Wednesday hadn’t thrown a punch.Not one.
“Kara? Kara, your vitals are all over the place!” Winn’s voice was a panicked buzz in her ear. “Your heart rate is at 180!Your core temperature is dropping. What’s happening?”
Kara tried to speak. All that came out was a ragged gasp. She stared at her own gloves, at the traitorous, trembling human hands inside them. The awful, impossible truth, cold and heavy, settled in her gut.
It was gone. All of it.
She wasn’t Supergirl in this ring.
She was just a girl, out of her depth, and the angel of death in black satin was waiting for round two.
Kara's breath hitched as she watched Wednesday reach into her robe, pulling out a small, gleaming object. It was a charm, a trinket, something her father had brought back from his travels. Kara had seen him use it on their cat, making the creature dance like a marionette. Now, those dark eyes were fixed on her, and the charm was swinging gently, hypnotically.
The bell rang, and Kara felt it, a tug at the edge of her mind. The ring spun, the ropes twisted, and suddenly, there were Wednesdays everywhere. A dozen of them, all in black, all smirking. Kara swung, her gloves connecting with the ring ropes, the canvas, the corner posts. She was fighting shadows, phantoms, and each swing brought a new sting, a new bruise. The crowd roared, thinking it was a spectacle, a show.
Kara’s vision blurred from exhaustion, her eyelids heavy as lead. The world tilted—Wednesday’s face becoming a smudged silhouette, the ropes of the ring stretching like wet spaghetti, the flickering neon signs bleeding into streaks of red and white. Her lungs burned, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t let Wednesday win. Not like this. Not *yet*.
A hand clamped onto her shoulder—Wednesday’s, ice-cold and unyielding. The charm in her palm glowed faintly, pulsing like a dying ember. Kara’s breath hitched as the air around them seemed to thicken, the fight’s adrenaline giving way to something colder. Something *wrong*. The crowd’s cheers faded into a distant hum, muffled as if she were underwater.
“You’re not Supergirl here,” Wednesday murmured, her voice a velvet rasp. “You’re just Kara.
And Kara can’t fly,” Wednesday whispered, her eyes gleaming like obsidian. The bell rang, signaling the end of the round. Kara, spent and bewildered, crawled back to her corner, leaving a trail of sweat and blood on the canvas. The crowd cheered, thinking it was part of the show, but to Kara, it was a humiliating retreat. She slumped onto her stool, her breaths ragged and shallow.
Wednesday, meanwhile, stood tall and triumphant in her corner. She held up Kara’s red cape, the symbol of Supergirl’s power and identity, like a trophy. The crowd roared in approval, their masked faces a sea of twisted delight. Grandmama Addams smiled, her wrinkled face creasing like old parchment, her eyes reflecting the flickering neon lights.
“Kara, what’s happening?” Winn’s voice was a desperate plea in her ear. “Your vitals are crashing.