Seraphina D'Angelo, freshly bathed and cloaked in a silk bathrobe softer than most people's morals, sank into her leather chair like a queen reclaiming her throne. The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and blood. Mostly bergamot.
She'd declined the maid's fifth request to clean the floors—again—with a raised brow and a clipped, "Unless you enjoy scrubbing up war crimes, I suggest you stick to dusting the bookshelves."
The maid had wisely vanished.
With her laptop balanced on her knees and a steaming cup of oolong resting beside a half-polished dagger, Seraphina keyed in the address Tattoo Guy had coughed up like a confession under duress—which, to be fair, it was.
The search results yielded nothing. Nada. It was a ghost address—no CCTV, no maps, no noise complaints, not even Yelp reviews. And that was more suspicious than a priest at a poker night.
"Either this is the Hand's new laundromat of souls, or someone's running a very exclusive, very illegal spa," she muttered, sipping her tea.
A few extra clicks and encrypted tunnels later, the ghost acquired a name: Madame Gao.
Oh, joy.
The ancient mummy with a glare that could crack mirrors and hands that once cracked ribs for fun. One of the Five Fingers of the Hand. A relic from K'un-Lun who probably made Machiavelli look like an optimist. Seraphina remembered her—barely. The last time they crossed paths, Gao's men ended up painted across a alley wall like a Jackson Pollock crime scene.
She sighed. "I swear, I take out a few of her geriatrics and suddenly I'm persona non grata in Chinatown."
Still, it wasn't wise to underestimate someone who probably taught Confucius how to throw a punch.
Eviction it was, then.
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[ Few Days Later ]
Seraphina had camped out across the street with a telescope better suited for planetary observation. Wrapped in a faux tourist get-up and sipping overpriced boba tea, she looked less like a vigilante and more like a fashionably annoyed astronomer.
The factory didn't disappoint. Officially, it was a "detergent production facility." Unofficially? It was where morality went to die.
Two guards flanked the only entrance, all bulk and no brains, armed with pistols that clearly weren't compensating for much—though the mustaches might've been trying.
Every midnight like clockwork, a blind man would shuffle out, carrying a heavy duffel bag. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was almost poetic. A human metronome of human trafficking.
Seraphina curled her lip. "Discreet. Efficient. Psychotic. Classic Gao."
But this wasn't a Punisher-style spree. Not this time. Seraphina had killed plenty in her past life, and a fair few in this one. But this—this required orchestration.
She needed someone disposable. But potentially useful.
Enter: Brett Mahoney. Patrol officer. A rare unicorn in the NYPD—still believed in the law, hadn't taken a bribe, didn't drool when women spoke. And more importantly, had survived New York without accidentally becoming a meme.
She tracked him to his patrol route. Hell's Kitchen, of course.
When she spotted him across the street, she adjusted her posture, channeling helpless civilian vibes like she was auditioning for a tragic Netflix drama.
"Hey! Officer!" she called, with just the right note of breathlessness. Not enough to seem suspicious—just enough to imply damsel-in-distress with a side of caffeine withdrawal.
Mahoney blinked. "I know you. Daisy, right?"
"Daisy, Delilah, Delirium—take your pick. I have something you're going to want to hear."
She pulled him closer like she was about to spill state secrets.
"There's a factory using the disabled to make and move product. Real hands-on exploitation."
Mahoney raised a brow. "Seriously? That's… that's huge."
"It's also horrifying, illegal, and boringly obvious. I thought you guys liked donuts, not blind spots."
"I'm just a patrol officer. If you've got evidence—"
"I've got eyes, sweetheart. And a telescope that costs more than your annual salary. Walk with me tonight, and I'll show you something that'll make you question every budget meeting you've ever sat through."
Mahoney hesitated.
"Unless you're scared," she added sweetly, "in which case I can always find a braver man with less mileage."
He sighed, as if he already regretted his career choices. "Fine. Midnight."
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[ Midnight Surveillance ]
They crouched inside a half-condemned building 200 meters from the factory. Seraphina looked as composed as ever, dressed in tactical wear that somehow still screamed luxury.
Mahoney, on the other hand, looked like he was rethinking his life.
"This is the place? Doesn't look like much."
Seraphina smirked. "You should know by now, Officer Mahoney—evil rarely comes with neon signs."
She handed him a napkin. On it was a diagram detailed enough to make an architect cry.
"The building is one meter taller than the zoning permits. Utility bills are astronomical. And that blind man? He's not delivering Avon samples."
As if on cue, the door opened. The familiar blind man emerged, bag over shoulder, tapping his way down the street.
"That guy's really blind. I've seen blind person before. I can tell."
She gave him a slow look. "And I've seen toddlers with better deduction. Ever wonder why they use the blind? Can't testify to what they saw. Convenient, isn't it?"
Mahoney leaned forward. "And they weren't blind to begin with?"
"Some are. Others were made that way."
She pulled up her phone, showing photos—gritty, blurred, and damning.
"Here's the pickup point. Second intersection down. No cameras, no chatter. After that? They vanish."
Mahoney stared. "This is a major operation. This is federal."
"And yet, here we are. You, me, and the world's worst corporate front."
He looked at her, really looked this time. "Why are you doing this?"
She paused.
"Because I want to stop these crimes."
She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her gloves.
"We blow the whistle now, it'll get buried. The moment that crime boss smells interest, they will go underground faster than a bad stock. But if we're smart? We can smoke them out."
"How?"
"We need eyes. Media. Pressure. You get this to the right people—not the low and mid level brass of NYPD."
Mahoney hesitated. "You sure about this?"
"I'm always sure. The real question is whether you're brave enough to follow through."
He nodded slowly.
She grinned. "Good."
And somewhere deep in Chinatown, Madame Gao probably shivered.
Not from fear.
But from the unmistakable feeling of being hunted.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]