Five days later.
The city had changed.
Not in obvious ways—the buildings still stood, the traffic still snarled, the sun still rose over glass towers that reflected its light with indifferent beauty. But underneath the surface, in the spaces between heartbeats, in the pauses between breaths, New York had transformed into something tighter. Sharper. More afraid.
DMPS checkpoints had sprouted like tumors on street corners. White vans with blue lettering patrolled neighborhoods that had never seen government presence before. Mutants disappeared—not dramatically, not with headlines, but quietly, efficiently, the way you'd remove a stain from expensive fabric.
The news called it "public safety measures."
Everyone else called it what it was: a hunt.
***
The knock came at 10:47 AM.
Three sharp raps, official and demanding.
"DMPS! Open up for mandatory mutant signature screening!"
Seraph was on the second floor when they arrived. He'd been expecting them for two days—the sweeps were systematic, methodical, moving block by block through Hell's Kitchen. His turn was inevitable.
He descended the creaking stairs slowly, deliberately, letting his footsteps echo in the hollow house. He wore sweatpants and a faded band t-shirt, spiky red hair artfully messy, the picture of someone who'd just rolled out of bed.
He opened the door with a sleepy, confused expression—then let it shift to something warmer when he saw who was leading the team.
Three officers stood on the sagging porch. Two men flanking a woman in the center. She wore captain's bars on her shoulder, red hair pulled back in a professional ponytail, sharp green eyes that had seen too much but hadn't lost their edge. Her name tag read "DEWOLFF."
Jean DeWolff.
The name sparked recognition from Peter's memories—a good cop in a department full of compromised ones. Honest. Tough. Someone Spider-Man had actually respected, which was rare for NYPD.
Seraph's smile widened, genuine and disarming.
"Well," he said, leaning against the doorframe with easy confidence, "if I'd known the NYPD was sending their best, I would've put on actual pants."
DeWolff's expression didn't change, but one of her officers—a younger man who looked fresh out of the academy—smirked before quickly suppressing it.
"Captain Jean DeWolff, DMPS division," she said, holding up her badge with professional efficiency. "We're conducting mandatory mutant signature screenings in this area. May we come in, Mr...?"
"Senju. Seraph Senju." He stepped back, opening the door wider with a graceful gesture. "Though I have to warn you—the place isn't much. I'm more of a 'function over form' kind of guy." His eyes met hers with the kind of direct attention that made people feel seen. "Except when it comes to company."
The flirtation was subtle, wrapped in politeness, delivered with a smile that transformed his entire face from merely attractive to genuinely charming.
DeWolff's expression flickered—surprise, quickly masked. She was used to fear, hostility, or nervous compliance during these sweeps. Charm was new.
"I'm sure we won't take much of your time, Mr. Senju," she said, entering with her team. Professional. Unmoved. But there was a hint of something in her voice—amusement, maybe. Or wariness.
The house creaked around them as they spread out. The younger officer glanced around nervously at the bare walls and general atmosphere of decay.
"You actually live here?" He couldn't hide his disbelief.
"Rent's cheap," Seraph said with an easy shrug. "And the ghost stories keep the neighbors from bothering me." He watched Captain DeWolff move through the space with practiced efficiency, scanner humming in her hand. "Though I have to admit, the isolation does get lonely sometimes."
He said it casually, but his eyes were on her when he said it.
DeWolff glanced up from her scanner, meeting his gaze for a half-second longer than necessary, then returned to her work. "How long have you lived here, Mr. Senju?"
"About two months. Call me Seraph—Mr. Senju makes me sound like my grandfather."
"We'll stick with protocol." But there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips now.
"Pity," Seraph said lightly, letting the word hang between them with just enough weight to be flirtatious without being pushy.
The younger officer was actively trying not to grin now. The other—older, more cynical—just rolled his eyes and continued scanning the kitchen area.
DeWolff approached Seraph directly, scanner raised. "This will just take a moment. Please stand still."
***
Beneath the house, in the hideout
Arclight stared at the security monitor showing the scene above, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair. The scanner's hum was faintly audible through the feed.
Her jaw was tight. Energy flickered unconsciously at her fingertips before she forced it down.
*What if they built something new? What if the scanners evolved?*
She'd seen the DMPS vans every day for nearly a week. Watched them drag mutants away. Heard the screams that stopped too quickly. The scanner technology was advancing—everyone in the underground networks knew it. What worked yesterday might not work tomorrow.
And if Seraph got flagged...
She didn't let herself finish the thought.
***
Above
Seraph held perfectly still, but his eyes never left DeWolff's. Up close, he could see the faint lines of stress around her eyes, the exhaustion she carried like armor. A good cop in a bad system, doing a job she probably hated for reasons she believed in.
The scanner hummed over him, analyzing his bio-signature.
For a fraction of a second—barely measurable, a flicker in the scan pattern—the device hesitated.
Seraph's smile didn't waver. His heartbeat didn't spike. But deep in his mind, Peter's instincts and Hashirama's battlefield awareness both sharpened to points.
Too long. The scan's taking too long.
Then the device beeped. Green light.
Nothing.
No X-gene. No mutation markers. No elevated radiation or electromagnetic anomalies.
Just human. Perfectly, boringly human.
What the scanner couldn't detect—what no scanner *could* detect—was what Seraph actually was. Not mutant. Not born with abilities coded into DNA. A mutate. Someone who'd gained powers through external means, through impossible fusion with something that shouldn't exist.
His DNA was still human. His cells were still human. Everything the scanner measured screamed "normal."
It just happened that his "normal" human body could manipulate wood, create shadow clones, and sense danger before it happened.
Small difference.
"Clean," DeWolff announced, lowering the scanner. She made a note on her tablet. "Seraph Senju, 47 Mercy Street. Negative for mutant signatures."
Seraph released a breath he hadn't consciously been holding. "Disappointing," he said with mock sadness. "For a moment, I was hoping I'd discover some hidden superpower. Would've made for a great conversation starter."
DeWolff's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "I think you do fine without superpowers, Mr. Senju."
"That sounds like a compliment, Captain." His grin was pure mischief now. "I'll take it."
The other officers finished their sweep—basement, upstairs, all clear. Nothing suspicious except the general atmosphere of a house with a dark history.
"All clear, Captain," the older officer reported.
DeWolff nodded, already moving toward the door. Professional. Efficient. Ready to move to the next location.
"Captain DeWolff," Seraph called after her. She paused at the threshold, glancing back. "I know this is probably against about seventeen different regulations, but—would you like to get coffee sometime? When you're not hunting dangerous mutants?"
The younger officer's eyebrows shot up. The older one actually looked impressed despite himself.
DeWolff studied Seraph for a long moment. Taking him in—the spiky red hair, the attractive features, the confident posture of someone completely at ease in his own skin. The kind of guy who could probably charm his way out of a speeding ticket or into any room he wanted.
Dangerous, in a completely different way than she was used to dealing with.
"That would be against seventeen different regulations," she said finally. But her tone had softened, just slightly. "And I don't date civilians I meet during official investigations."
"What about a week from now?" Seraph's smile never wavered. "When this one's closed and I'm just a guy who lives in a creepy house?"
DeWolff actually smiled then—brief, genuine, transforming her face from stern authority to something warmer. "You're persistent."
"Only when something's worth pursuing."
She shook her head, but she was still smiling. "Stay safe, Mr. Senju. Lock your doors. There's been mutant activity in this area."
"I'll be careful," he promised. Then, as she turned to leave: "But if you change your mind about that coffee, you know where I live."
DeWolff didn't answer, but he caught the faint shake of her head as she walked away—not disapproval, but amusement. Maybe even a little interest, carefully buried under professional protocol.
The DMPS van pulled away. Seraph watched from the window until it disappeared around the corner.
His smile remained fixed for another three seconds. Four. Five.
Then it slipped away like water down a drain. The warmth in his eyes cooled, replaced by something sharper, more focused. His posture shifted—shoulders squaring, casual ease replaced by predatory stillness.
The charming civilian disappeared. The calculating predator returned.
Too close. The scanner hesitated.
He'd felt it—that fractional delay, that moment where the device had caught something at the edge of its parameters. Not enough to flag. Not enough to fail. But enough to notice.
The technology was evolving. Faster than he'd anticipated.
Which means the timeline just accelerated.
He closed the curtain and walked to the basement door.
Time to get to work.
***
The hideout beneath the house was alive with holographic displays when he descended. Arclight practically launched out of her chair.
"Did you just flirt with a DMPS captain?"
"Information gathering," Seraph said smoothly, moving to his workstation. "Building rapport with local law enforcement could be useful later."
"Uh-huh." Arclight's smirk was knowing, but there was tension underneath it. Relief. "And asking her on a date was part of your master plan?"
"Multitasking." He pulled up a screen, fingers flying across a holographic keyboard. "Besides, she's attractive, intelligent, and probably has access to information we'll need eventually. Why not lay groundwork?"
Arclight watched him for a moment, saw the way his movements had sharpened, how his focus had narrowed to a single point. The charming civilian was completely gone now.
He was scared. For just a second up there, he was scared.
She didn't mention it. Didn't need to. They both knew how close that had been.
"You're unbelievable," she said instead.
"I'm efficient." His tone shifted, becoming more focused. "And speaking of efficiency—I found her."
Arclight straightened immediately. "The analyst?"
"Her name is Tessa." Seraph pulled up a file—government documentation, surveillance photos, data profiles.
The image resolved on the screen, and Arclight's breath caught.
The woman staring back at them wasn't conventionally beautiful, but she was *striking*. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair with a distinctive white streak cutting through it like lightning frozen in place. But it was her eyes that demanded attention—they held an intensity that suggested she was processing more information in a single glance than most people absorbed in a lifetime. The photograph had caught her mid-movement, and even in that frozen instant, there was something about her posture that radiated awareness. Like she'd known the camera was there. Like she'd *let* them photograph her.
The tattoos visible on her neck and arms weren't random—they were precise, geometric, almost like circuit patterns or encoded data.
*She looks like she's thinking in languages that don't exist yet,* Arclight thought.
"Tessa... multiple surnames on file," Seraph continued, pulling up more data. "Changes identity frequently. But the government's been tracking her for eighteen months. They have a different classification for her." He highlighted a section of the file.
**CLASSIFICATION: OMEGA-LEVEL COGNITIVE THREAT**
**ABILITIES: Advanced computational processing. Information synthesis. Pattern recognition at speeds exceeding current AI capabilities. Probability calculation. Potential for technological interface.**
"She's not just smart," Seraph said quietly, studying the file with the attention of someone examining a masterwork. "Her mind *works* like a supercomputer. She can process information simultaneously across multiple channels, calculate probabilities, identify patterns in chaos. She sees the data streams everyone else misses."
He pulled up another screen—movement logs, location data, cross-referenced surveillance footage. "She's been staying off-grid, moving between safe houses, using her abilities to stay ahead of law enforcement. But three days ago, she made a mistake."
"What kind of mistake?"
"She stopped running." Seraph highlighted a location in Crown Heights. "She's been in the same apartment for seventy-two hours. That's an eternity for someone with her capabilities who knows she's being hunted."
Arclight frowned. "Why would she stop?"
"Either she's tired of running, or she's calculated that staying put is somehow safer than moving." Seraph's eyes narrowed. "Or she knows something's coming and she's positioning herself for it."
"Could she know about you?"
"Possibly. If her abilities are as advanced as I think, she might have processed enough data fragments to predict my existence." He pulled up government communications—encrypted, but he'd cracked them two days ago. "The problem is, I'm not the only one who found her."
He highlighted a series of messages, timestamp from six hours ago.
**DMPS PRIORITY TARGET LOCATED. CROWN HEIGHTS. AUTHORIZATION FOR EXTRACTION PENDING.**
**DEPLOY SENTINEL PROTOTYPE UNIT FOR FIELD TEST. TARGET: TESSA [REDACTED]. COMPUTATIONAL ABILITIES CONFIRMED. CAPTURE PRIORITY: MAXIMUM.**
**EXTRACTION WINDOW: 18-24 HOURS.**
Arclight's face went pale. "They're sending a Sentinel after her?"
"A prototype. Testing it on a high-value target before full deployment." Seraph's voice was grim. "Which means we have less than twenty-four hours to get to her before the government does."
"And if we're too late?"
"Then we lose the most valuable piece on the board, and the government gains someone who can out-think their enemies before the enemies even know they're thinking." He started pulling up building schematics, satellite imagery, planning approach vectors. "We move tonight. Fast insertion, secure the target, extract before DMPS mobilizes."
"She's not going to just come with us willingly."
"No." Seraph's smile was cold. "Which is why we're going to offer her something she can't refuse—a third option that isn't government dissection or constant running." He met Arclight's eyes. "We offer her what she actually wants. Purpose. Protection. And a chance to *apply* her abilities instead of just surviving with them."
Arclight studied the file, the woman's intense eyes staring back at her from the screen. Someone who could process information like a living computer, trapped between a government that wanted to weaponize her and a life of endless flight.
"What if she says no?"
Seraph's expression didn't change. "Then we convince her. One way or another, Tessa joins us tonight." His tone carried absolute certainty. "Because in eighteen hours, the government deploys their Sentinel, and she becomes either their asset or their corpse."
He returned to the tactical planning, already three moves ahead, but a part of his mind was still processing that hesitation in the scanner.
*The technology is evolving. Which means I need to evolve faster.*
Above them, the city continued its dance. DMPS swept neighborhoods. The government prepared its weapons. And somewhere in Crown Heights, a woman who could think in dimensions others couldn't perceive was waiting—though whether she knew exactly what was coming for her was still an open question.
Seraph intended to find out.
Tonight.
End of chapter
Author's note: Don't forget to add this story to your library and drop a Power Stone to show your support