The chaos didn't end with the melodramatic kneel heard 'round the world.
The Japanese consul, who looked like he'd walked straight out of a Miyazaki film—wise, serene, and slightly bemused—finally stepped in. "Miss Johnson," he said with the kind of calm that made her itchy, "please rest assured. For saving our citizens, you'll be compensated. Ms. Matsumoto is also capable of working. There will be no need to worry."
Oh, there was always need to worry. Especially when people said not to.
Seraphina D'Angelo—currently wearing her "Daisy Johnson" skin like a fashionable mask—narrowed her eyes as she accepted a sleek envelope containing a ten-thousand-dollar apology-for-the-trauma donation. Bribery, but make it diplomatic. The envelope practically whispered: Take this and kindly don't start a war.
Outside the consulate, the cool wind kissed her cheeks. She glanced sideways at Maki, who was now officially glued to her side like a loyal golden retriever with honor issues.
Maki's posture radiated purpose, reverence, and disturbing anime energy.
"I'm not even going to ask if this is normal," Seraphina muttered, more to herself than to Maki. "But if you kneel again in public, I'm legally obligated to commit homicide. Or at least a very aggressive sigh."
Maki nodded seriously. "Understood, Miss Johnson."
God, she's serious.
They made their way back to Seraphina's temporary hideout. A shared apartment—cozy, boring, and already too cramped for the Queen of the Underworld's ego. Time to relocate.
She did a sweep first, her paranoia not dulled by recent goodwill. Street cams? Hacked. Network traffic? Quiet. Yakuza? Seemingly pacified by the consulate's strategic silence and neatly bundled hush fund. Still, she trusted diplomacy about as much as she trusted priests with bank accounts.
Time to move.
She packed in record time. Essentials first: laptop, weapons tucked in false compartments, encrypted hard drives, and the worn T-shirt she kept around for some reason she refused to psychoanalyze.
Rolling suitcase in hand, she emerged from the apartment like a queen abandoning a peasant cottage. Maki followed in silence, still clad in her tattered excuse for clothing.
At their new Brooklyn flat—modest by Seraphina's standards, which meant only mildly luxurious—she tossed Maki a change of clothes.
"Your current outfit is... less fashion, more accidental burlesque. Put these on before someone offers you a pole and a stage name."
Without hesitation, Maki began undressing. In the living room.
Seraphina, who'd tortured diplomats and interrogated mercenaries without flinching, suddenly found herself blinking rapidly. Strictly analytical, she told herself. Scientifically neutral observation.
Maki was shorter, curvier, built like someone who'd fought stairs more often than sparring matches. Her legs weren't toned, but her torso—good grief. That shirt clung to her chest like it was holding on for dear life.
Seraphina raised an eyebrow. "Biology really is unfair sometimes."
She sighed. "So. What can you actually do, Matsumoto?"
Maki blinked. The intensity in her eyes burned like someone who'd been raised on honor-bound loyalty oaths and outdated samurai code. But skills? Practical ones?
Guns? No. Knives? Nada. Combat? Absolutely not.
Driving? Please.
Espionage? Only if accidentally forwarding spam counted.
What Maki did have was a law license. In Japan. And not the kind that meant much in the concrete jungle of New York. She'd been lured to America under the promise of an internship that had vanished like mist. Her English was choppy, her visa precarious, and her understanding of American street dynamics laughable.
But there was a silver lining to all this chaos. Maki could cook.
As in, actually cook. Not "college student microwave roulette" or "I saw this on TikTok" kind of cooking. Real food. Balanced, fragrant, criminally delicious food.
Seraphina, who could survive on caffeine and revenge, found herself blinking in confusion as the apartment filled with the scent of stir-fry and tofu.
"I can help," she offered, mostly out of guilt.
Maki pushed her out of the kitchen like a gentle freight train. "Please, Miss Johnson. You've already done too much. Let me handle this."
Seraphina shrugged and collapsed on the couch. "Sure. I'll just... sit here. Being saved from manual labor."
Dinner was tofu-based with a crisp green bean stir-fry. Humble ingredients, masterfully executed. Seraphina took one bite and nearly cursed.
"This is edible. Impossibly edible. I feel—offended."
"I'll do better next time!" Maki said earnestly.
"Don't you dare," Seraphina warned, stuffing more food into her mouth.
Her metabolism—enhanced by her powers—burned calories like a five-alarm fire. But Japanese portions were tragically artistic. The whole meal barely counted as a snack.
She considered screaming, I WANT MEAT like a shōnen protagonist, but refrained. One cultural crisis at a time.
After dinner, Maki washed the dishes, humming softly like some domestic dream forged by Studio Ghibli. Seraphina lounged on the couch like a cat that owned everything it touched.
This... wasn't terrible.
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[ The Next Morning ]
Seraphina woke to the smell of lemon. Not food—cleaning supplies.
That's when she realized the apartment was sparkling. Not just tidy. Sterilized.
She padded into the kitchen and found Maki arranging law books like a shrine to overachievement.
"What the hell is happening?" Seraphina muttered.
"I cleaned. And I called the consulate. They'll help with my documents. I also picked up these books from the local library. And English grammar guides."
"You... went outside?"
"I wore a hoodie and sunglasses," Maki said, dead serious. "And I didn't speak to anyone. I used note cards."
Seraphina blinked. "You're terrifyingly competent for someone who panicked mid-kidnapping."
Then she noticed something deeply concerning.
Her laundry.
Was folded.
Including her underwear.
"Hey!" she yelped, pointing at the neat little stack like it had personally betrayed her. "That's—no! Boundaries! Do you know what boundaries are?"
Maki looked serene. "Yes. I did this often for my family. Please don't feel troubled."
"I'm not troubled," Seraphina snapped. "I'm... being professionally weirded out."
And then, the final blow.
Maki smiled, eyes gentle, voice soft. "Miss Johnson smells very nice."
Seraphina froze. Rebooting.
Seraphina made a strangled noise and yeeted a pillow in her direction.
After some very loud protesting and one accidental head bonk, Seraphina retreated to the kitchen and began preparing coffee. Maki, meanwhile, keep arranging a stack of books: legal codes, immigration guides, beginner-level English primers. She'd even contacted the consulate to get her paperwork in order.
Color her impressed.
Seraphina returned the favor that afternoon with a stack of her own: American law, courtroom slang, even a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird just to mess with her.
"Let's teach you the American way. First lesson: suing people you don't like."
Maki beamed like a child given her first sword.
Seraphina took a sip of coffee, narrowed her eyes, and sighed theatrically.
"I swear, if you start calling me milady, I'm going to have to find you a cape and a sword."
Maki's eyes sparkled with dangerous interest.
Seraphina groaned and flopped onto the couch. She was a trained assassin, cyber-terrorist, queenpin of underground networks—and now she had a retainer who folded her socks and complimented her shampoo.
And just like that, Seraphina knew: her life had spiraled from espionage thriller to a live-action anime. And the worst part?
She kind of liked it.
Her life had officially entered the sitcom arc.
And somehow, she wasn't even mad about it.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]