Catherine Isa Bella
Strength: B-
Stamina: B+
Dexterity: B+
Magic Release: B+
Mental Power: C-
Luck: C
Noble Phantasm: Bloody Rose (False), Goddess of War (False)
Riding: C+
Intuition: B+
Charisma: A
Most of her attributes hovered around B+, with some brushing against A. For someone who started at C-rank in nearly every category, Bella's growth had been extraordinary.
But what did that mean in practical terms?
It meant that at her current level, fighting low-level thugs or gangsters brought her nothing—no thrill, no progress, and certainly no benefit.
Money? She had enough. She wasn't buying a penthouse any time soon, and even if she did, Bella had a growing sense that New York was just cursed real estate.
After all, she'd exhausted her magic in the fog disaster a month ago and let the Goddess of Judgment persona go silent. Nick Fury assumed she was recuperating, perhaps on the edge of magical collapse. Truth was, Bella had recovered in three days.
The remaining 27 days? Spent lounging, reading, napping, and occasionally listening to music while eating cake. She never once claimed she was a superhero, after all.
The "Goddess of Judgment" identity? That was just a cover story to hide her real one. And the whole "King of Knights" vest? Honestly, she'd come up with that just for fun.
So expecting Bella to proactively hunt down criminals was, frankly, wishful thinking. She did things when she wanted to—not because some government suit asked nicely. She wasn't some vigilante intern looking for validation.
Let the cops deal with street-level chaos. And let S.H.I.E.L.D. keep pretending they had everything under control.
As lyrical music played softly through the speakers, Bella guided her sleek Chevrolet Camaro through the streets of New York. The sun was dipping beneath the skyline, casting long shadows over the city. A faint twilight hue painted the clouds in gold and rose.
She was just trying to enjoy her drive home.
Then it happened.
As she idled at a red light near Midtown, her music was suddenly drowned out by something loud and obnoxious. A thumping beat—brash, over-processed hip-hop—blasted from the car next to her, completely overpowering her soft instrumental playlist.
Bella's brow twitched. Her hand hovered near the volume dial, but it wasn't her stereo that needed adjusting.
The source of the racket was a classic Dodge muscle car, parked alongside her Camaro. Inside were four young men, all hyped up—gold chains swinging, cigars between their lips, and arms waving to the rhythm like they were in a music video.
One of them, sitting in the passenger seat, happened to glance Bella's way.
His entire demeanor froze.
His jaw slackened.
Eyes widened.
It was like time slowed.
There she was—long, slightly wavy golden hair catching the last sunlight, flawless skin, and piercing eyes that hinted at stories no man could ever fully understand. She looked like Venus sculpted by a higher god. And she was frowning.
"Yo, yo, look! Look at this angel beside us!" the passenger hissed, slapping the driver on the arm.
The driver, lost in the beat, didn't react—until the guy reached over and killed the music completely.
The silence hit like a slap.
"Yo, are you nuts?" one of the guys in the back snapped. "I was just getting into that!"
"You messin' with the playlist? I'm gonna bust your speakers!"
"Faaack, man—"
But the passenger didn't argue. He pointed toward Bella with all the awe of someone witnessing a miracle.
The backseat crew leaned forward, saw her—and their complaints evaporated.
Suddenly, they were boys again, not thugs.
One of them rolled down the window.
"Hey baby, nice ride," he called out.
Another followed. "You ever go street racing? We got some sweet spots if you wanna hang."
The third chuckled nervously. "There's a great bar downtown, real exclusive. You'd love it."
Bella's jaw clenched. Her already frayed patience thinned like ice underfoot. She turned toward them slowly, her golden eyes narrowing.
Boom.
Like thunder without sound, the air around her seemed to collapse.
A look—that was all it took.
In an instant, her expression transformed from mild annoyance to lethal indifference.
The killing intent she unleashed was not ordinary. It wasn't just anger. It wasn't just pressure. It was the collective weight of every undead she'd incinerated, every demon she'd butchered, every soul she'd judged. It was the embodiment of death staring from a beautiful face.
The gangsters didn't even register what was happening at first.
Then came the chill.
The warm summer air turned to winter in an instant. Frost didn't appear, but they felt it—icy winds howling against their skin, seeping into their bones. Their breath caught in their throats.
Their swagger shattered.
The guy in the passenger seat swallowed a scream. The driver's hands gripped the wheel, trembling. One of the backseat passengers—unable to withstand the pressure—actually wet himself.
They couldn't move. They couldn't speak. Bella hadn't even stepped out of her car. She just looked at them.
The green light changed.
Her gaze shifted away, disinterest reclaiming her face.
Boom.
With the roar of her engine, the Camaro shot forward, leaving behind the stunned men frozen in their Dodge.
A few seconds passed in silence before the blaring of horns behind them kicked in.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEP!
An old man in a rusted sedan shouted, "What the hell's wrong with you morons?! On drugs? Get outta the road!"
He leaned out his window, shaking a fist. "I'll call the cops on you damn hoodlums!"
The men finally snapped out of it.
Panicking, they floored the gas, lurching forward, though their hands were still trembling. The car wobbled slightly as they drove off—more than enough to convince the old man they were high.
"Idiots. I swear, these kids are gonna run into traffic one day."
Back in the Camaro, Bella's expression relaxed again.
She switched the music back to her playlist and let out a sigh.
That was annoying.
It wasn't even their comments that had gotten to her—it was the noise. Drowning out her music like that? Unforgivable.
As for their attempts to flirt… she hadn't even registered them. Her brain had long since stopped processing that kind of attention. It wasn't that she thought she was too good for them.
It was just that... they didn't understand what they were dealing with.
She was no longer the curious girl who had first landed in New York with powers she didn't understand. She wasn't a vigilante with something to prove. She was something else now—a judge of the supernatural, a slayer of gods and monsters.
Let Fury worry about global peace. Let Barton hunt down anomalies.
She just wanted a quiet evening with cheesecake and music.
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