Seraphina D'Angelo did not run. Queens did not run. They reallocated velocity.
And tonight, she was reallocating quite a bit.
The streets of Hell's Kitchen blurred beneath her boots as she moved with purpose, crimson coat slicing through the fog like a velvet guillotine. A burst of vibrations pulsed from her fingertips, mapping her surroundings in fractals of sound and pressure. Useful. Functional. Absolutely irritating.
"Ugh," she muttered to herself as the returning echoes gave her a jumbled mosaic of screaming air vents, homeless snores, and one very loud cat in heat. "It's like trying to read a Picasso with a migraine."
Her seismic radar, as she privately dubbed it, was still in beta mode. Great for detecting motion in a library. Terrible when navigating a city that sounded like a blender full of steel screws.
Still, she had made it work. She always made it work.
Behind her, a tattooed brute groaned softly. The last of the tailing goons, currently enjoying an involuntary nap courtesy of Seraphina's elbow. She dragged him into the shadows like last week's regrets, unceremoniously stuffing him behind a dumpster. He'd wake up with a concussion, a cracked rib, and the distinct honor of being her informant. Possibly. If he played his cards right. And she didn't reshuffle the deck with his skull.
"Stay warm, darling. New York nights are unforgiving," she whispered mockingly, patting his cheek.
Her eyes flicked to the left—an old apartment building with the architectural charm of a prison and the security of a paper bag. Two quick steps, and she launched herself upward, catching the roof's eave with fluid grace. She vaulted over, landing silently like a judgmental cat with a superiority complex.
Seraphina pulled her pistol. She aimed toward the street, eyes narrowing as she watched for movement. The pulse of her shockwave ran down her arms, steadying her aim.
Enter: Mr. Mohawk.
He waddled into view like a man trying to find a thought and losing the battle.
Bang.
Left eye. Clean shot. Seraphina grinned as he crumpled like bad fashion.
"Shame," she said. "That hair could've traumatized children."
She didn't go on full killing streak on local gangs, as that will give her bad reputation with S.H.I.E.L.D. later down the line if she join them, they will be wary of her and it will become difficult for her to climb the ranks in the S.H.I.E.L.D. initially but HAND's goons they were open game for her.
She darted across to the next rooftop with lethal elegance, boots whispering against gravel. Two more goons, just below. These ones looked a touch brighter—their eyes scanned the alley like frightened dogs, weapons raised, twitchy fingers on triggers.
Seraphina crouched. The wind caught her coat like a bloodstained banner. She took aim again but hesitated. They were too far. She could hit one. Maybe. But even queens didn't bet on maybes.
She waited. Let them panic.
One goon began firing into the shadows, hopeful as a sinner in confession. The other, brighter by half, fumbled with his phone. Backup. Adorable.
Another bang. The smarter one dropped with a hole where his future used to be.
His partner screamed. Seraphina's bullet clipped his arm, sending his gun clattering to the ground. He ducked behind a wall, panting like a cornered mutt.
Then—
"We're not hostile! Madame just wants to chat!" he shouted.
She tilted her head. "Aren't you precious."
"This has to be a misunderstanding!"
Seraphina was already moving, flanking him silently. She wasn't about to let a desperate henchman with questionable trigger discipline test fate.
Another pulse. Her fingers touched the rooftop, sending a low tremor through the building. Below, the goon stumbled.
"Is that… an earthquake?"
Bang.
No, darling. That's justice.
She descended from the roof with all the grace of a goddess bored with Olympus. Four bodies now. One unconscious, three permanently unemployed.
She rifled through pockets with the casualness of someone shopping for handbags. Two grand in cash, three guns, and enough ammo to make John Wick blush.
"At least they die useful," she muttered.
Then it was time to deal with Sleeping Beauty. She picked up a nearby wooden plank—sturdy, splintered, and just insulting enough. One solid thwack, and the tattooed man groaned awake.
His eyes opened to a pistol an inch from his nose.
"Hi," she cooed. "Let's play a game. It's called, 'Tell Me Everything Before I Get Bored.'"
He gulped. "I don't know much—"
Bang.
His foot exploded in agony.
He screamed.
"That was the wrong answer. Wanna try again?" she purred, cocking the pistol.
"Okay! Okay! Madame Gao sent us!"
Seraphina blinked. "The old raisin in silk robes? How adorable. I thought she retired to hell."
He looked away.
"And if you had caught me? What then?"
He paled. "Sell you. Or… use you. Factory work. I swear, I just follow orders."
"You and every war criminal ever," she sighed.
"You promised not to kill me," he said, almost childishly.
Seraphina smiled, holstering her gun. "And I meant it."
Then, in one graceful motion, she pulled a backup pistol from her thigh holster and put a bullet clean through his head.
"That one didn't," she added cheerfully.
As his body hit the ground, she stepped over him, careful not to dirty her heels. Queens did not track blood.
Pocketing his wallet, she checked the address he mumbled earlier. Just in case. If Gao wanted to play, Seraphina was happy to flip the board.
And as she disappeared into the shadows, Hell's Kitchen was left a little quieter.
For now.
To be continued...
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