[ Central Park, New York ]
I didn't plan to start my morning knee-deep in a gang war.
Then again, I rarely planned anything so mundane.
I was just passing through Central Park to clear my head, maybe scare a pigeon or two. Instead, I found myself staring down a live-action soap opera: terrified children, a frantic woman, and a man built like a military-grade safe barking orders like we weren't all in the middle of a daylight shootout.
"Take the kids to the car. Go to the safehouse. Now."
Ah, the classics.
His wife obeyed, eyes brimming with tears. The kids were crying. I wasn't. Predictable emotions never impressed me.
Our eyes locked.
The man.
The soldier.
A silent exchange. No pleasantries, no names. Just two weapons acknowledging each other across a battlefield.
Six more thugs arrived, all puffed-up testosterone and bad hygiene.
Finally.
The fight broke out like a symphony of chaos, and I was the bloody conductor.
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Combat was art.
Six gang members emerged from the shadows, weapons drawn. Without a word, the man charged, his movements a blur. I followed, my steps light but deliberate.
I engaged my first opponent, deflecting a punch and responding with a precise strike to the solar plexus. Subtle vibrations coursed through my arm, amplifying the impact. The gangster crumpled.
Nearby, the man dispatched two assailants with brutal efficiency, his combat skills honed from years of warfare.
I faced another attacker, dodging a knife swipe and retaliating with a palm strike to the chest, sending vibrations that knocked him unconscious.
The duo moved in harmony, covering each other's blind spots. Seraphina's finesse complemented the man's raw power.
Every punch I threw, every elbow I drove into a jaw was a brushstroke. I moved like silk-coated death. The gang members didn't know it, but they were dancing with a Queen.
The soldier was a sledgehammer; I was a scalpel. He cracked bones, I shattered spirits. He shot. I whispered with fists.
I didn't need to kill them.
Yet.
But I made sure they'd be out of commission. For months. Maybe permanently. Ruined joints, shattered ribs, a few skulls concussed to the edge of existence. My vibration power hummed through my limbs, disrupting balance, disorienting impact zones. A subtle twist to the dance.
They'd never know what hit them. Only that it hurt like hell.
At one point, I pivoted behind a brute trying to flank the soldier, drove my heel into his knee, and snapped it like uncooked pasta. He howled.
"You should've stayed in bed, darling," I muttered.
The soldier shot two more assailants clean through the chest with cold precision. Efficient. Predictable. Brutal.
We moved like gears in a well-oiled machine. At one point, he tossed a thug into my path. I clotheslined the man mid-air and turned it into a flipping throw that sent him through a park bench.
Tag-team terror.
I could get used to this.
And then the twist.
One of the dying thugs, guts practically spilling from a gut wound, pulled a gun and fired three desperate shots.
The soldier took them all.
One hit just near the heart.
And just like that, our dance was over.
The shooter dropped dead seconds later.
Of course.
The universe has a cruel sense of irony. Or maybe it just enjoys my company.
The sirens sang in the distance, growing louder.
I didn't waste time.
I dragged the soldier—heavy bastard—to my car. Tossed him in the backseat like luggage. Checked his pulse.
Shallow.
"Well, this day went to hell in a Versace handbag," I muttered, peeling back his jacket.
Three holes.
One was bad.
Too close to the heart.
I pulled out his wallet.
"Frank Castle... Oh."
The Punisher.
The myth. The walking trauma response. The man who would become a symphony of vengeance.
Well, wasn't this just cosmic comedy.
I looked at his unconscious face.
"Looks like you're catching an Uber to your tragic origin story. And guess what, sweetheart? I'm the driver."
Well, atleast he has his family alive this time.
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The drive was chaos.
Frank was bleeding like a Quentin Tarantino set piece in my backseat. His heartbeat was erratic. His breathing was worse.
I didn't know field surgery.
I knew how to poison someone with a flower petal and two drops of regret, sure. But this?
This was messier.
"You die on me and I'm billing your ghost."
I parked in an alley and kicked open the trunk. Raided the nearest pharmacy like a proper citizen — paid in full, of course. Old habits. Even I have rules.
I booted up my laptop and let YouTube teach me how to save a man's life.
Vibration pulses helped with bullet removal. Didn't want to leave my fingerprints inside him. Classy.
"AHHHH—" Frank jolted up like a vampire waking up to sunlight, then immediately flopped back down like a malfunctioning jack-in-the-box. Blood sprayed everywhere like a Tarantino set.
Daisy groaned. "Dude. Seriously?" Her treatment was working—technically—but Frank's combat reflexes were tuned to eleven, and her healing touch wasn't exactly OSHA-approved.
I stitched him like a drunk fashion student with PTSD.
He survived.
Barely.
After slapping him awake (lovingly), I demanded directions.
He blinked.
I scoffed.
Typical.
"Fine. I'll drag your bleeding body to the nearest haunted mattress and hope you don't die out of spite."
Which is exactly what I did.
Found an abandoned house. Carried him inside. Tossed him on the bed.
Checked his wallet again. No cash.
Of course.
"Oh, you're that kind of husband."
I slid two hundred of my own money into his wallet. Begrudgingly.
"You better not use this for revenge snacks."
Then I vanished.
-------------------------------------------------
[ Apartment Room, New York ]
My apartment greeted me like an old enemy: cold, quiet, judgmental.
I crashed on the couch, still half-covered in someone else's blood. Searched online for news.
Nothing useful.
Blurry images, vague headlines. No one mentioned the Queen.
Perfect.
I cracked open the gang leader's stolen phone.
Trafficking links.
Nothing concrete.
But names.
And I loved lists.
I whispered to the reflection in my laptop screen.
"You're next."
Then I smiled.
Not kindly.
The Queen wasn't here to rule yet.
But she was watching.
And she was hungry.
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[ The Next Day ]
Morning came with stale bread and poverty.
My funds were... unspectacular. With the last of my rent secured and two hundred dollars gone to a dying vigilante, my options were limited.
Art? I could draw blood, not portraits.
Writing? She couldn't even remember what happened in Harry Potter, let alone plagiarize it accurately.
Another Dark web shenanigans? Nah it will take too much attention to her, as she just did that syndicate malware thing recently
Crime? Tempting.
Freelance hacking? Boring. She'd rather vibrate herself into a coma than spend six months in front of a laptop. But it was the best at the moment with her plans of being temporary viligante.
She sighed and walked out to her rental car. The second she opened the door, the smell hit her like a sledgehammer and immediately gagged.
"Oh sweet unholy hell—what died in here? Oh, right."
Blood soaked the seats.
No way I could return the car. Not unless she wanted to get interrogated by NYPD.
A knock-off car wash that handled "red stains"?
Now we were talking.
After wearing a mask on my face. I headed to the only place that wouldn't ask questions.
Veles Taxi.
Russian mob adjacent.
Perfect.
I pulled into their garage, masked up like a femme fatale in a spy flick.
Two goons spotted me.
One marched over. Big. Dumb. Neckless.
"What?"
I leaned on the wheel and purred:
"Car wash."
He frowned.
"What kind?"
I rolled my eyes.
"The kind with bleach and no snitching."
He didn't laugh.
Tough crowd.
Then I saw him.
James Wesley.
Kingpin's right hand. Suit pressed. Expression blank. Sociopath, probably.
He eyed me. Calculating.
I eyed him back. Smirking.
Let the games begin.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]