The hospital room felt sterile and small, the rhythmic beeping of machines a mocking soundtrack to Ethan's burgeoning power. Corvus, perched on the windowsill, his obsidian eyes gleaming, was a far more compelling distraction.

"Alright, Blackwood," Corvus croaked, breaking the silence. "Time to see what you're working with. Gentle now. Wouldn't want to rip a hole in this flimsy reality."

Ethan scowled. “Easy for you to say, birdbrain. You're not the one who feels like he's about to explode.”

He flexed his left arm, or rather, where his left arm used to be. He focused, remembering Corvus's vague instructions about channeling the Aethelred Strain, visualizing it as a surge of energy coursing through his veins. A tingling sensation started in his phantom limb, then spread, intensifying until a shimmering, ethereal replica of his arm materialized. It wasn't solid, more like a ghostly projection, but he could *feel* it.

"Impressive," Corvus conceded, tilting his head. "Now, try to grip something. Control, Blackwood, control. Or we'll be needing new windows."

He cautiously reached for the metal bed frame. The moment his spectral hand made contact, the metal screamed in protest, bending and contorting under the unseen force. Ethan gasped, pulling back instantly. The ghostly arm flickered and disappeared.

"Too much, you oaf!" Corvus screeched, hopping onto the bed frame, which now resembled a crumpled tin can. "You're treating it like a sledgehammer, not a hand! Think finesse, think precision!"

Ethan took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He was a soldier, damn it. He was used to controlling his body, even in the most extreme situations. But this… this was something else entirely. He was dealing with an unknown force, a primal energy that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Fine, bird. Finesse it is," he muttered.

The hospital was definitely not the place for “finesse.” He checked himself out, against doctor's advice and escaped to the run-down brownstone apartment that was his only refuge.

His apartment, a cramped one-bedroom in a perpetually-under-construction corner of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, was a far cry from the operating theaters of Afghanistan. It smelled faintly of stale beer and dust. He focused again, summoning the spectral arm. This time, he tried to focus, thinking about the simple act of picking up a pen from his cluttered desk.

Slowly, tentatively, the ghostly limb formed. He reached for the pen, concentrating on regulating the flow of the Aethelred Strain. He felt a burning sensation behind his eyes, a tightening in his chest. He gripped the pen… and promptly crushed it into a pulpy mess.

"Goddamn it!" He roared, the spectral arm vanishing in frustration. He slumped onto his threadbare couch, his prosthetic leg digging uncomfortably into the worn cushions.

Corvus landed on the back of the couch, his head cocked. "Progress, Blackwood. You crushed the pen. Before, you would have pulverized the desk. Small victories."

"Small victories that are costing me a fortune in writing implements," Ethan grumbled. He looked around the cramped room, suddenly acutely aware of its fragility. This place was barely held together by duct tape and hope. If he lost control again, it would be reduced to rubble.

"We need a training ground," Corvus declared. "Somewhere… expendable."

After a bit of searching, Ethan found an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. It was dilapidated, graffiti-covered, and smelled strongly of urine, but it was perfect.

The next few days were a blur of controlled chaos. Ethan, guided (and often berated) by Corvus, pushed his limits. He started with basic exercises: lifting weights (which he promptly snapped in half), running (leaving cracks in the concrete floor), and punching (leaving dents in the already crumbling walls).

One evening, attempting a complex maneuver involving leaping from one pile of debris to another, he misjudged the distance and crashed headfirst into a stack of old tires. The tires exploded outward, scattering across the warehouse floor like rubbery shrapnel.

"Graceful, Blackwood. Truly graceful," Corvus cackled from a nearby rafter.

Ethan groaned, pulling a tire fragment from his hair. "Shut up, bird. This isn't exactly Olympic material."

Another time, while practicing his speed, he accidentally created a miniature tornado of dust and debris, which promptly sucked up a flock of pigeons roosting in the rafters, sending them squawking and flapping wildly around the warehouse. Corvus nearly fell off his perch, convulsing with laughter.

The neighbors certainly noticed. There were shouts, complaints, and even a brief visit from a suspicious-looking police officer, whom Ethan managed to bluff with a story about renovating the warehouse for "artistic purposes."

Back in his apartment, things weren't much better. One morning, attempting to make coffee, he accidentally shattered the ceramic mug, sending shards of porcelain flying across the kitchen. He ended up drinking instant coffee out of a chipped teacup, feeling more like a monster than ever.

"You're improving, Blackwood," Corvus insisted, as Ethan picked shards of porcelain from his prosthetic arm. "The key is focus. Meditation. Find your center."

"My center is currently occupied by a screaming vortex of superhuman rage," Ethan retorted.

Despite the setbacks, the accidents, and the constant haranguing from Corvus, Ethan was indeed improving. He was learning to modulate the flow of the Aethelred Strain, to control its raw power. He could summon his spectral limbs with greater ease, manipulate objects with increasing precision, and even run at speeds that would leave a cheetah in the dust.

But the control was fragile, tenuous. And he knew, deep down, that he was playing with fire. The Aethelred Strain wasn't just a source of power; it was a parasite, a foreign entity that was slowly taking root within his soul. He could feel its influence, its subtle whispers, urging him to embrace its destructive potential.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, Ethan sat on the floor of his ravaged apartment, breathing heavily. Corvus perched on the windowsill, silhouetted against the twilight sky.

"You're getting stronger, Blackwood," Corvus said, his voice unusually somber. "But strength is not enough. You need to understand what you're fighting for."

Ethan looked up at the raven, his eyes filled with doubt. "What am I fighting for, Corvus? I'm a broken man, living in a broken world. What's the point?"

Corvus hopped down from the windowsill, landing gracefully on the floor. He walked towards Ethan, his dark eyes fixed on his.

"You are fighting for the chance to be something more, Blackwood. Something greater than you ever imagined. You are fighting for the future. And perhaps… for redemption."

Ethan stared at the raven, a flicker of hope igniting within his heart. Maybe, just maybe, Corvus was right. Maybe he could find a purpose, a reason to embrace this strange, terrifying power. Maybe he could even learn to control it, to use it for good.

But as he looked out the window, at the sprawling cityscape bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, he couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was coming. Something that would test his newfound abilities, and his resolve, to the breaking point. The hunters were out there, somewhere, and they were getting closer. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that the time for training was almost over. It was almost time for the first real fight.