Seraphina D'Angelo did not flinch often, but watching her own lace underwear pinched delicately between Matsumoto's fingers like she was folding an origami swan? That got a twitch.
She didn't scream—she was far too dignified for that. But she did execute a strategic withdrawal, murmuring something incoherent about privacy and electromagnetic disturbances as she backed into her room like she was retreating from a cursed shrine.
Just as she was about to seal herself off from the world, Maki chirped cheerfully, "I've scrubbed the bathroom too! Feel free to use it anytime, Miss Johnson!"
Hot water. Peace. Possibly bubbles.
That was enough to override her ego.
The moment she was down to her shirt, she heard the unmistakable creak of a door.
Enter: Maki, again. Still smiling, still carrying a towel, and—oh, for the love of Hades—holding her underwear like it was some kind of ceremonial offering.
"I thought I'd shower too," the girl said, all innocence and oblivion.
Seraphina gave her a stare so withering it could've stripped paint.
"Darling," she said slowly, as if speaking to a puppy about to chew on a grenade, "Solo showers. Emphasis on solo. I suggest you respect the art of bathing alone."
Her powers are still... temperamental. Unless Maki like the water to start vibrating out of the pipes and rupture her spleen. So only showers.
With a gentle but forceful push, she closed the door on the overly eager maid, locked it, and let out a sigh. Maki wasn't trying to seduce her, Seraphina knew. The girl was as pure as a shrine maiden dipped in bleach. But that just made her more dangerous. The unintentional ones always were.
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[ Few Days Later ]
Days passed. Things... mellowed.
Seraphina, still adjusting to post-Terrigenesis life and semi-retirement from organized carnage, found herself in a strange rhythm. Matsumoto, apparently born from a blend of geisha, retainer, and military logistics officer, handled everything outside of Seraphina's mental breakdowns and assassination plans.
Food? Delivered.
Clothes? Immaculately pressed.
Schedule? Coordinated like a mafia summit.
And yet, Maki had Opinions. About fashion.
"Miss Johnson," she scolded, arms folded like a tiny general, "Wearing neutral-toned hoodies and canvas sneakers when you look like that is practically a war crime."
"If fashion police were real," Seraphina replied dryly, flipping a page in War and Peace, "I'd bribe their commissioner."
Still, she humored the girl. Mascara, eyeliner, contour—the things she once used for espionage, now wielded like civilian camouflage. Seraphina watched YouTube tutorials with an expression usually reserved for CIA interrogation tapes.
One morning, Maki shifted awkwardly while Seraphina ate cereal in her silk robe.
"I want to learn melee combat."
Seraphina nearly choked on a spoonful of overpriced granola.
"Darling," she said, wiping her lip with lazy elegance, "The only thing you're ready to take down is a stapler. Finish law school first. We need more legal cover, not broken bones."
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[ Later ]
The calm didn't last.
Her old school had officially shut down. She has already given her exams and pass from the school. Students with money and secrets had vanished. James Wesley limped by one day, bruised in both pride and jawline. Seraphina had planted that bruise herself, and it was healing too slowly for her tastes.
Angela, sweet and unaware, tilted her head during lunch and asked the most dangerous question in the English language: "So, what are your plans now?"
Seraphina smiled with all the charm of a viper in velvet.
"Oh, you know. Maybe something part-time. Dismantling shadow cabals. Hunting space artifacts. Catching up on my reading."
Angela laughed. She thought it was a joke.
After walking Angela to her minimum-wage haven, Seraphina wandered off, calculating finances. Her funds, though once flush from black market dealings and digital siphoning, were hemorrhaging. Between the six-month lease, Matsumoto's designer soap addiction, and obscure books from banned corners of the web, her budget was... tight.
She sat on a park bench, scanning the crowd. Sixth sense tingling. A ripple in the air. Like a bad note in a symphony.
An old Asian woman approached, leaning on a cane, eyes glittering like obsidian shards.
Wrinkled. Slow. Smiling.
Seraphina's spine stiffened.
Asian looking grandma? check. Weird energy around her? double check. sadistic wrinkled eyes? triple check.
There was only one person in New York like that as far as her meta knowledge take her.
Madame Gao.
Chi vampire. Hand operative. Ancient monster in a grandma wrapper. Seraphina had seen this one in visions and metadata. Chi energy wrapped around her like invisible barbed wire.
"You need something, Grandma?" Seraphina asked, voice calm but eyes calculating exits.
Gao smiled with teeth far too white. "Your eyes shine brighter than any lantern in the dark, little girl."
Seraphina's smile faltered. "Creepy. Thanks. Gotta go."
She doesn't want to fight in the open with a chi monster and use her power in the open.
She bolted.
She barely got two blocks before the sound of meaty footsteps echoed behind her.
"Oh, for f—" She turned. Two bald men. Built like fridges. Dressed like MMA villains.
Great. Foot soldiers. Probably from The Hand. They're onto me.
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
"Good," she whispered. "Very good."
Confirmation. The Hand was behind the trafficking network she'd been snooping through. Now they were trying to silence her? Lovely. It meant she was on the right scent.
"Madame Gao said follow her, not kill her," one grunted.
"She didn't say we couldn't rough her up."
Seraphina didn't wait to hear more. She launched forward like a racehorse with a vendetta.
Parkour time.
Wall-run. Ledge-grab. Roof-flip. She moved like her bones were wired with piano strings.
The bald twins barreled behind her, smashing into fences, cans, and one very unfortunate fruit stand.
"She's part squirrel!" one wheezed.
"Split up! Cut her off!"
She heard them flanking, but they weren't subtle. One sounded like a stampede; the other smelled like cheap cologne and regret.
She ducked into a narrow alley, shadows curling around her like old friends. Pressing her palm to the concrete, she sent a vibrational pulse through the earth.
There. Right side. Big steps. Tattoo. Pulse spiking with adrenaline.
Gotcha.
The moment he stepped into the alley, Seraphina struck.
A vibration shot from her hand. Silent, targeted, clean.
The man flew back like he'd been launched from a cannon, slammed into a brick wall, and crumpled with a noise like a sack of cement meeting destiny.
Seraphina walked over, all grace and shadows.
Pistol? Meh.
Wallet? $150.
"Pathetic," she muttered. "You work for a death cult and carry cab fare?"
She wiped mud from her sneakers on his jacket, muttering darkly about the price of canvas shoes.
"This city owes me a spa day."
Then she looked up.
Another shadow moved.
More were coming.
Seraphina rolled her neck, cracked her knuckles, and smiled like a woman ready to audition for villainy.
"Round two."
Welcome to New York. Where the grandmas hunt souls, the baldies need cardio, and the Queen of the Underworld just wants to finish her damn bath.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]