The night had that greasy, neon glow that made Hell's Kitchen look like a low-budget noir film. Seraphina D'Angelo turned a corner, the click of her crimson heels echoing like gunshots down the wet pavement. She was dressed in midnight silk with a tailored coat flaring behind her like a cape—because if you're going to play hero, you may as well do it like royalty.
Then came the chaos.
Four Japanese women burst out of a sushi restaurant like it owed them tuition money, screaming with the raw panic of people who'd seen Hell and realized it came with table service. Behind them, a pack of angry men followed—armed with sticks, knives, and the kind of sleazy grins that made Seraphina's fingers twitch for her blades.
"Karera o tomete kudasai!" one of the men shouted. She understood the Japanese easily. "Stop them."
One of the fleeing women locked eyes with her and frantically waved for her to run.
Seraphina didn't move.
She tilted her head, green eyes narrowing. The men had the posture of drunk frat boys on a power trip. Sloppy footwork. Uncoordinated breathing. All bark, no bite. She let her lips curl slightly, the way one might when spotting a cockroach.
Then one of the girls tripped.
The buzz-cut brute looming behind her grabbed a fistful of her hair, bat raised like he was about to teach a lesson.
Seraphina moved. One second she was standing. The next, she was in the air, heels slicing through the night. She landed foot-first into his jaw with a crunch that echoed down the alley.
His bat didn't even hit the ground before it was in her hands.
What followed was less of a fight and more of a ballet of violence. She twirled the bat once in her grip, almost bored. Then she began.
Whack.
Crack.
Snap.
One man got his kneecaps inverted like IKEA furniture. Another took the bat to the sternum and folded like cheap origami. A third tried to lunge with a knife; she parried with the bat, shattered his wrist, and kicked him into a stack of trash bins.
But the horde wasn't done yet. More poured out of the sushi joint like rats fleeing a sinking business.
A click-clack behind her made her pause. Gun.
"Move it!" she snapped at the girls.
They ran, and she followed—but not before flicking her fingers. A tight pulse of vibrational energy shot from her palm, short and focused. The gun jammed. The wielder howled as it backfired, exploding in his hand.
The streets of Hell's Kitchen were her map. Every alleyway, shortcut, and fire escape was etched into her mind like a chessboard. She led them through shadows and steam, dodging drunkards and dumpsters alike, until they were far from danger.
The girls collapsed against a graffiti-tagged wall, panting like winded schoolchildren. Seraphina hadn't even broken a sweat. She smoothed her coat and turned, the bat still in her hand.
The tallest of the women—a slim girl with defiant eyes and a scraped knee—bowed deeply. "Thank you, thank you," she said in accented English.
Seraphina arched a brow. "Are you going to bow until I sprout angel wings or should we cut to the backstory?"
The girl flinched but managed to speak. Exchange students. Lured by scholarship promises. Instead, trapped in a trafficking front disguised as a sushi restaurant. Tonight, they saw a chance and took it.
"I'm Maki," the woman added. "Maki Matsumoto. A law student."
Seraphina introduce herself. "And I am Daisy Johnson."
Then she blinked. Hard. Her mind clicked like a safe unlocking.
Wait.
Maki Matsumoto?
As in the Maki? Future assassin? The one who was supposed to be Bullseye's emo soulmate with a katana fetish?
Today she was just a scared girl with dreams and dirt on her knees. Fate was nothing if not sarcastic.
Seraphina led them to the Japanese embassy—not because she trusted them, but because she didn't trust anyone else not to screw it up. The other three bowed a hundred more times, shoved written addresses into her hands, and begged her to visit Japan someday.
Maki lingered.
Seraphina noticed the way she stood a little straighter now, chin raised like someone who'd decided their future. She narrowed her eyes.
"You got something to say, Samurai Spice?"
Maki dropped into a deep bow. So deep it might as well have been an excavation.
"Miss Johnson!"
Seraphina winced. "Ugh. We're doing full names now?"
"I wish to stay by your side. As your retainer!"
The embassy staff stopped moving. Even the vending machine guy looked up mid-crunch.
Seraphina tilted her head. "You mean like those dramatic period dramas? You want to serve me with loyalty, tea ceremonies, and sudden death oaths?"
Maki nodded solemnly. "Yes. You saved me. I believed in a dream that nearly killed me. You reminded me reality has warriors too."
Seraphina rolled her eyes so hard it could have passed for yoga. Then she whispered to Maki. "Lady, I'm a vigilante with a superiority complex and a flair for accessorized murder. I don't need a sidekick; I need a vacation."
Maki didn't move. She remained kneeling, back straight, eyes unwavering. That old-world honor nonsense written all over her face.
Seraphina groaned.
"Fine. You can follow me around until you get bored or stabbed. But if you start calling me 'Master,' I swear I'll vibrate your kidneys out of alignment."
The vending machine guy nodded solemnly. "That's the price of charisma, girl."
Seraphina smirked.
One boot in reality, the other ankle-deep in anime. Great. Just what her chaotic little empire needed.
And as Maki stood behind her like a loyal shadow, Seraphina felt it. The future shifting. Like chess pieces clicking into place on a board only she could see.
Her life just got messier.
And infinitely more interesting.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]