Hell's Kitchen. A name that tried so hard to sound gritty and dangerous, like it deserved to be feared. But to Seraphina D'Angelo, it was a sandbox full of unruly children. And tonight, mommy was coming home.
She'd thought through her plan with the precision of a tactician and the flair of a diva. Step one? Beat the living soul out of the roaches infesting this city block by block. Step two? Extract information about trafficking. No intel? No problem. Stir the pot enough, make the rats squeak and scurry. They'd panic, and panicked rats did foolish things—like come after her. And that's when she'd strike gold. Or blood. Either worked.
But first, she had a date—with violence.
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[ Late That Night ]
The first target was a graffiti-smeared warehouse nestled between a shuttered pawnshop and a deli that probably sold more heroin than ham. Perfect.
Seraphina moved like a whisper through shadows. Her outfit: matte black, fitted, combat chic. The kind of ensemble that made you want to beg her for mercy and fashion tips.
The first guard leaned lazily against a wall, puffing a cheap cigarette, oblivious to the goddess of fury descending upon him. She ghosted up behind him, wrapped her arm around his neck in a bloodless choke, and whispered, "Bad night to exist." He dropped like dead weight.
One.
Inside the building, chaos brewed in silence.
Two men by the staircase were too busy arguing over a football game to notice the slender shadow above them. Seraphina vaulted from the upper rail, landed with feline grace, and smashed their heads together with a crisp crack.
Two. Three.
Another guard patrolling the second floor stopped mid-step when he heard a soft click behind him. He turned—and got a knee to the solar plexus, followed by an elbow to the temple. Goodnight, sweet prince.
Four.
Seraphina moved with the kind of elegance that made ballet look clumsy. The fifth one was tougher—a bruiser built like a refrigerator. She let him swing, dodged like a ghost, and then used his momentum to slam him into the wall with a precision judo throw.
Five.
In the hallway, two more. She kicked the door off its hinges—literally—and used the distraction to flip the closer one into a broken chair. The other tried to stab her.
Cute.
She disarmed him, broke his arm in three places, and shoved the knife into the floor between his legs.
"Next time, use a gun. Or don't bother breathing."
Six. Seven.
The eighth man heard something and crept into the hallway, only to be greeted by the sound of his own nose breaking under a roundhouse kick.
Eight.
The ninth thought he could sneak up on her. He was wrong. She grabbed him by the collar, slammed him into a pillar, and whispered, "You disappoint me," before knocking him out with a forehead slam.
Nine.
Eight left. In the main room. All clustered around a poker table like a scene from a low-budget gangster flick. Beer, smokes, and stupid confidence. They were halfway through a round of Texas Hold 'Em when Seraphina kicked open the door.
She wasn't sneaking anymore. What was the point?
They spotted her instantly.
"The hell?! SHOOT HER!"
The room exploded into gunfire. But Seraphina just tilted her head and smirked.
Bullets froze midair—well, almost. Her vibrations formed a shimmering dome that caught or deflected every shot. Sparks flew. Screams followed.
She strode forward. One flick of her wrist and the pistols trembled, then exploded in their owners' hands like cheap toys.
"Bring sticks next time. Might last longer."
Then the symphony of pain began.
The first idiot lunged with a broken bottle. She caught his wrist, disarmed him, and delivered a brutal uppercut that lifted him off his feet.
Ten.
The second tried a bear hug. She slipped out, spun, and landed a Superman Punch to his temple. Lights out.
Eleven.
Third and fourth came together. Big mistake. She swept one off his feet, using his body as a shield against the other's punch, then followed up with a spinning back kick that sent them both into a stack of crates.
Thirteen.
The next two tried to flank her. She flipped over a table, kicked it at them as a shield, and then launched herself feet-first into the fifth guy's chest. He hit the wall and slid down like bad wallpaper.
Fourteen.
The sixth dropped his bat and tried to run. Seraphina grabbed him by the back of the shirt and yanked.
"You forgot your beating."
She turned him around, kneed him in the stomach, he kneel down in pain. Then she curb stomp. His head kissed the concrete. Fifteen.
The Sixteenth man charged with a rusted crowbar. She disarmed him, cracked his knee with a low sweep, and then caved in his ribcage with a heel stomp.
Sixteen.
The last man—clearly the boss—held up his hands. "I don't—I don't want any trouble."
Seraphina tilted her head.
"Sweetheart. You're breathing. That's trouble enough."
She dislocated his arm with a twist and shoved him into a chair.
"Trafficking. Where?"
"I—I don't know! We're just middlemen! Charity fund scams, drugs, rough jobs! Nothing about—"
Wrong answer. She let the vibrations shake the metal chair beneath him just enough to make his teeth rattle.
"Not convincing."
"I swear! We just deliver cash. No idea where it goes!"
She looked him dead in the eye, judged his heartbeat with her gift.
He was scared. But honest.
"Tch. Useless."
She knocked him out with a slap that would make an earthquake blush.
Then she gathered the "charity" cash—stuffed in duffel bags, dirty bills smelling like cheap perfume and regret—and walked out like it was her birthday.
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[ Next Morning ]
By morning, whispers had already spread. Some said a ghost. Some said a mutant. Some said a demon with great taste in boots.
S.H.I.E.L.D. said: "Put her on the watchlist."
Seraphina? She just sipped her coffee and grinned.
"If they're watching, at least give them a good show."
She didn't care about flying under the radar. Let them see. Life was boring otherwise. She will just go with the flow for now. Besides, she had few plans. Not any world shattering ones. And if the universe insisted on sending her drama, she'd turn it into theatre.
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[ Three Days Later ]
Three nights. Three gang cleanups. Three duffel bags worth of bad money.
But she didn't get any information about the location of human trafficking ring and who is running it. Well it just means they are high level bastards.
In between beatings, she coded freelance gigs under fake aliases, pulling quick cash from desperate startups. One even asked if she could make their dating app "feel less lonely." She made it redirect to cat videos.
She filed for early exams too. A high school diploma was the bare minimum for future queenpins.
Angela was leaving soon, moving back with her parents. Seraphina didn't blame her. The girl wanted a quiet life.
Seraphina wanted a throne.
She used her latest loot to rent a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. Modest by her standards. But clean, quiet, and one step closer to her empire.
She'd move in tomorrow. Tonight, she had one more errand. One more gang cleanup. Her fourth duffel bag worth of bad money was waiting.
Later after the gang cleanup. When she was going back to her apartment.
As she turned a corner.
It started with screams. Four Japanese women bolted out of a sushi place like it owed them money. Behind them, a pack of drunk men with sticks and blades chased, shouting things that made Seraphina's blood freeze.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]