[New York City]
Unlike Seraphina, who treats plan her own future. Angela's parents have a crystal-clear life blueprint for her. The only reason she ended up in this hymn-happy missionary school was because of its cozy relationship with Yale. You see, back in the day, Ivy League schools were basically church clubs with Latin exams. So if you behave, sing praises loud enough, and avoid setting anything on fire, you might just get a holy recommendation to the Ivy gates.
There was a reason Seraphina D'Angelo didn't believe in fate. Fate was for the weak — the desperate who needed something to blame when the world chewed them up and spat out their bones. No, Seraphina didn't trust fate. She trusted information, leverage, and the quiet click of a safety being turned off behind someone's back.
But even she had to admit — life was getting creative.
Apparently, the universe thought it'd be hilarious to reincarnate a Queen of the Underworld into the chaos vortex of a collapsing missionary school in Hell's Kitchen, surrounded by girls who thought John 3:16 was a Wi-Fi password.
Seraphina — still stuck in the teenage shell of Daisy Johnson — sat cross-legged on her creaky dorm bed, fingers flying across her keyboard. Her roommate, Angela, was sprawled in front of the mirror applying lip gloss like it was a life skill.
"They're shutting it down," Seraphina muttered, squinting at the announcement email like it personally insulted her bloodline.
Angela didn't even look up. "Some big company wants to bulldoze the place. Gentrify the whole neighborhood with dog spas and kombucha pop-ups."
Seraphina's brow arched. Kombucha? Hell truly had frozen over.
She tapped into public records — hacked, obviously — and found the source: United Construction Corporation.
Her smile curled like a blade. "These bastards? Already?"
United was a well-tailored puppet for Wilson Fisk, a.k.a. Kingpin — a man Seraphina remembered reading about him in comics back in her previous life.
If some street level spandex wearing heroes wants to fight to gang boss in Hell's Kitchen on Tuesday, then he is your guy.
Curious. And annoying.
In the halls of the school, chaos reigned. Students packed. Teachers quit. The school board smiled like they'd just signed a deal with the devil. Probably had. One of Fisk's pet lizards, James Wesley, even showed up — all sharp suits and slick words. Seraphina recognized the type. Men who thought shiny cufflinks made them invincible.
They didn't last long around her.
But fine. Let the school burn.
Seraphina didn't mourn pawns. She recalculated the board.
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She had options. More than most.
Become a mafia queen again? Tempting. Familiar. Comfortable. But in this world? That was like downgrading from Empress to petty crime boss fighting for turf with men who still thought leather jackets and chains were intimidating.
Here, mafia bosses were clowns in a circus — constantly getting punched by self-righteous vigilantes and morally confused billionaires with daddy issues.
She'd ruled from shadows before. Owned ports, labs, bloodlines. Presidents bowed or bled.
Here? You'd be lucky if the local Spider-kid didn't web your car for double parking.
Hard pass.
What about going legit? Start a company, maybe a tech empire? Sure, if she wanted S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra sniffing around every lunch break. No, thanks.
And Hydra — oh, Hydra. What the movies showed was just the polite version. In truth, they were a multinational tentacle beast with too many heads and a fetish for infiltration. Finance. Education. Intelligence. Probably even Girl Scouts. Their reach was sickening.
But also fascinating.
Later, she told herself. First, stability.
She glanced at her wallet.
Empty. Again. Like her patience.
Angela offered a job at a local convenience store. Seraphina stared at her like she'd offered to sell her kidneys on Craigslist.
"Darling, if I ever ring up beef jerky for a living, bury me in silk and lie about my legacy."
That left… charity. Or, as Seraphina preferred to call it: redistribution of criminal assets.
She prowled the streets of Hell's Kitchen. What a name. Dramatic, pungent, and entirely too accurate. Drugs, corruption, and gang trash on every block. Cops were either bought or blind. Crime ran in the gutters like rainwater.
And the missing persons? Mostly blind folks. Alarming. Human trafficking, most likely.
Disgusting.
She wasn't a saint. But hurting kids?
That pissed her off.
So she made a decision.
Temporary vigilante.
Not because it was noble.
Because it was efficient.
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[The Next Day]
Wearing a hoodie and casual jeans — armor of the anonymous — she rented a car and cruised through Manhattan. Stark Industries, Oscorp, Rand Enterprises. Impressive towers built on shaky ethics.
She yawned. Corporate slavery wasn't her flavor.
She'd only work under someone if it involved silk sheets and dominance contracts. Maybe. And only if she was in charge.
She ended up near Central Park. Just driving. Thinking. Pretending she wasn't calculating ways to take down half the city's criminal hierarchy before lunch.
Then — chaos.
A gunshot. Then another.
People screamed. Ran. Tires screeched.
She turned her head slowly.
Two gangs. Fifteen men. Guns out.
Target: a man, his wife, and their two children. The boy couldn't have been older than eight. The girl? Maybe six. The father stood like a warrior — trying to shield them all with his body.
Her vibration-frequency ability kicked in. She sense that the family man was... good? Honest. Brave. Noble. Basically, the anti-Hydra.
He looked like he could fight.
But not against fifteen.
Cowards.
Seraphina's blood iced over.
She exhaled. Pulled up her hood. Wrapped a scarf around her face.
This would be quiet.
She moved like a ghost.
A flick of her hand sent a frequency pulse under the ground. Just enough to rattle bones.
One of the gangsters jerked, looked around. Another's gun exploded in his hand with a well-placed vibration spike.
They started to panic.
She was smiling now.
Not her cruel smile. Her entertained one.
Let them dance.
Another flick. A knee shattered.
Then another.
Chaos spread through the gang like fire through dry grass. They couldn't see her. Couldn't hear her. But one by one, their weapons failed, their bones cracked, and their courage vanished.
She stepped from the shadows.
One thug turned, eyes wide. "What the—"
I grinned. "Boo."
He screamed, tripping over his own feet.
"Boys," she drawled, voice muffled by the scarf, "next time, try math. Fifteen of you. One of me. And still, you lose."
One of them — brave, or stupid — lifted a backup pistol.
She sent a tight quake through the concrete. The recoil shattered his wrist.
He screamed. She tilted her head.
"Shh," she purred. "You'll scare the children."
The family watched, stunned.
She turned her back on the whimpering thugs and knelt beside the little girl. "You alright, principessa?"
The girl nodded, eyes wide.
Seraphina reached into her pocket and offered her a lollipop from a stolen candy jar. "Don't tell your mom. Sugar is rebellion."
Just then they hear screeching of tires.
More gangsters incoming.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]