The explosion woke him.
Seraph's body reacted before thought—rolling off the mattress, landing in a crouch, chakra surging to his palms. Wood coiled beneath his skin like compressed springs, ready to erupt.
His heart hammered. Every muscle taut, waiting for the breach, the attack—
Nothing.
Just muted traffic. Distant sirens. The ordinary chaos of a city that never slept.
He stayed frozen for three heartbeats, senses stretched, cataloging everything: water-stained ceiling, thin morning light through cheap curtains, old cigarettes and industrial cleaner, someone arguing in Spanish two rooms over.
No breach. No attack.
Just New York being New York.
Seraph exhaled slowly, willing his chakra to settle. The wood beneath his skin retracted reluctantly. The adrenaline took longer to fade.
He moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
Below: Queens Boulevard in early morning. Construction crew with jackhammers. Food carts setting up. People moving with purposeful anonymity.
Three blocks east: a column of black smoke rising into pale sky. Emergency vehicles converging, lights painting the morning red and blue.
Not an attack. Just the city being alive in all its violent, chaotic, indifferent glory.
Seraph sat on the bed's edge, head in hands, trying to calm the instincts screaming that danger was everywhere.
I'm safe. For now.
The words felt hollow, but he repeated them until his hands stopped shaking.
***
The shower was lukewarm at best, the pressure inconsistent, but it was *water*. Real water. Washing away grime and sweat and the lingering chemical smell from the facility.
He scrubbed until his pale skin turned pink. His red hair—still long, still wild—turned darker when wet, heavy against his shoulders. He'd need to fix that. The color was distinctive. Memorable.
When he emerged, the bathroom mirror was fogged. He wiped a hand across it, studying his reflection: sharp features, pale skin with that faint translucent quality, eyes shifting between brown and amber.
Not Peter Parker's face. Not Hashirama's. His.
One day at a time. First: stay breathing. Everything else follows.
By noon he was dressed in the stolen mall clothes—dark jeans, gray t-shirt, black hoodie. New sneakers. He counted his remaining cash: $2,820 after the motel. Enough for weeks if careful, but not enough for what came next.
Problem for later. Right now: eat. Think. Plan.
***
The diner was three blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. The kind of place that had been there forty years and would be there forty more.
Seraph slid into a booth near the back, positioning himself to see both door and kitchen. The waitress appeared within seconds—older woman, efficient warmth of someone who'd done this job forever.
"You know what you want, honey?"
His enhanced metabolism screamed demands. "Pancakes. Stack of three. Eggs, scrambled. Bacon. Hash browns. Toast. Orange juice and coffee."
She raised an eyebrow. "Growing boy. Coming right up, sweetheart."
The TV in the corner played news. J. Jonah Jameson filled the screen mid-rant.
"—MENACE! That explosion in Midtown this morning? Three blocks from where Spider-Man was spotted last week! Coincidence? I THINK NOT!"
The anchor tried to interject: "Mr. Jameson, authorities stated it was a gas line rupture—"
"Cover-up! That wall-crawling vigilante is a THREAT TO PUBLIC SAFETY—"
Seraph tuned it out. Peter's memories contained fondness for Jameson somehow, but Seraph felt nothing. Just distance.
The food arrived in a glorious pile. Pancakes fluffy and drowning in syrup. Eggs perfectly scrambled. Bacon crispy and salty. Hash browns golden-brown.
He ate methodically, savoring each bite, forcing himself to slow down and eat like a normal person instead of a starving predator.
Blend in. Anonymous. Forgettable.
By the time he finished and paid ($18.50 plus a five-dollar tip), his priorities were clear:
Identity : Birth certificate, Social Security number, driver's license. Foundation of legal existence. Peter's memories provided contacts who operated in gray spaces, who could forge documents good enough to pass scrutiny.
Shelter : The motel was temporary. He needed somewhere permanent, secure. Somewhere to train, store resources, plan.
Power : His Wood Release was crude. He could create basic structures, but the true techniques—massive forests, the Buddha statue, subtle applications—required training and control he didn't have.
All three required resources. Time. Money. Safety.
One step at a time.
***
He was three blocks into his walk when it happened.
A cyclist came careening around the corner—fixie bike, no brakes, moving too fast. The rider—teenager, headphones in—swerved to avoid a food cart and plowed into a woman carrying groceries.
Time stretched. Seraph saw the collision, saw her purse flying, saw her stumble.
He moved without thinking.
Three quick steps. His hand caught the purse mid-arc. His other hand steadied her elbow, keeping her upright.
"You okay?"
The woman blinked, startled, then focused on him. "I—yes. Thank you. That kid just—"
"Kept going. Yeah." Seraph handed her the purse, then helped gather scattered groceries. An apple in the gutter. A split bag of rice.
As they collected items, he got a better look at her.
Mid-twenties. Professional dress—slacks and blouse. Dark hair pulled back. Natural prettiness. And when she smiled in thanks, something in Peter's memories clicked.
Liz Allan.
Recognition was instant. Peter had known her—Midtown High, same graduating class. Friends, maybe something more in another timeline.
But she didn't recognize Seraph. Why would she?
"Thank you so much," Liz said, brushing dirt off the rice. "The cyclists in this city are getting worse every year."
Seraph handed her the last item—eggs, miraculously unbroken. "You sure you're okay?"
"Fine. Just rattled." She studied him. "You're bleeding."
He glanced down. His palm had a small cut from the purse's metal clasp. Already healing at a rate that would be noticeable if he let her keep looking.
"It's nothing."
"Still." Liz produced tissues from her purse. "At least wipe it off."
Seraph accepted them, covering the cut while his healing finished. "Thanks."
Liz shifted her grocery bags, then seemed to really see him. Her expression shifted to concern. "Your hair—when was the last time you got it cut?"
Seraph tensed slightly. Perceptive.
"Been traveling," he said carefully. "Haven't had time. You know a place around here?"
"Actually, I'm heading to my barber now. Mr. Flores—he's two blocks from here. Been cutting hair in this neighborhood for thirty years." She paused. "I could show you the way if you want?"
The offer was genuine, simple. No hidden agenda. Just kindness.
"Yeah," Seraph said. "I'd appreciate that."
They walked together, Liz making casual conversation about the neighborhood while Seraph mostly listened. She was easy to talk to—warm without being intrusive, friendly without demanding reciprocation.
Peter's memories painted her as someone who'd always been kind, even when it wasn't convenient. That much, at least, hadn't changed.
Flores Family Barbershop occupied a narrow storefront between a dry cleaner and a cell phone repair shop. Faded posters in the windows, striped pole rotating slowly. Through the glass, an old man swept hair from around a vintage barber chair.
"Mr. Flores!" Liz called, pushing through the door. A bell chimed. "You have time for two walk-ins?"
The old man looked up—seventy at least, weathered brown skin, hands moving with practiced precision. His eyes flicked from Liz to Seraph, taking in the wild red hair with professional assessment.
"For you, Miss Allan? Always." Thick Puerto Rican accent. "Your friend needs a cut too?"
"He does."
Mr. Flores nodded. "I finish Miss Allan first, then you. Fifteen minutes."
Seraph sat in the waiting area while Liz took the chair. The barbershop smelled of aftershave, hair tonic, and cleaning products. Classical music played softly from a small radio. The whole place felt like stepping into another era—slower, quieter, more deliberate.
He watched Mr. Flores work: the careful sectioning of hair, the precise angles of each cut, the gentle efficiency of someone who'd perfected a craft over decades. Liz sat relaxed in the chair, occasionally chatting about neighborhood gossip.
When it was his turn, Mr. Flores draped a cape over his shoulders and ran fingers through the tangled red hair.
"Long time since a cut," he observed.
"Yeah."
"You want to keep the length?"
Seraph looked at his reflection—wild hair framing a too-pale face, making him look feral and out of place.
"Short," he said. "Clean. Something normal."
Mr. Flores nodded, understanding something unspoken. "I can do that."
The scissors made soft snipping sounds. Hair fell in long red strands, pooling on the floor. Seraph closed his eyes and let the ritual wash over him: gentle tug of the comb, cool metal against his scalp, buzz of clippers cleaning edges.
Twenty minutes of being nothing more than a customer in a chair. Normal. Simple. Safe.
When Mr. Flores stepped back and removed the cape, Seraph barely recognized himself.
The wild hair was gone, replaced with a neat, short cut—still red, but controlled. Professional. The kind of haircut that could belong to anyone. Someone who existed in society instead of fleeing from it.
"Better?" Mr. Flores asked.
"Yeah. Better."
Liz paid for her trim, and Seraph paid for his cut—eighteen dollars plus tip. They walked back out into afternoon sunshine together.
"Feel better?" she asked.
"Getting there."
They stood on the sidewalk, neither quite sure how to end the encounter. Finally, Liz shifted her grocery bags.
"Well. Good luck with whatever brought you to Queens."
"Thanks. For showing me the barbershop."
"Anytime." She turned to go, then paused. "Hey, if you need local information or whatever—I work at the public library on Parsons Boulevard. Just... in case."
An offer of continued kindness from someone who had no idea what he really was.
"I'll keep that in mind," Seraph said.
Liz nodded and disappeared into pedestrian traffic.
Seraph stood there, hand unconsciously touching his shortened hair, feeling the weight of the city around him.
He'd been in New York less than twenty-four hours. No legal identity, limited resources, unknown enemies.
But he had a name he'd chosen. A face becoming his own. And maybe he could build something here.
He turned and walked deeper into the city, letting the afternoon crowd swallow him.
***
Hell's Kitchen - 8:47 PM
The neighborhood changed after dark.
Neon signs bled color into oily puddles. Graffiti covered every surface like scar tissue. The air tasted of rotting garbage, frying meat, and exhaust. Bass thumped from basement clubs. People moved with practiced wariness—eye contact was negotiation, and negotiation could turn violent.
Peter's memories provided navigation like an invisible map.That bodega is a front. That building's super takes cash to forget faces. That bar? Only enter if you're buying something illegal.
Borrowed knowledge. A lifeline stitched from a dead man's experience.
The building on 47th was five stories of converted brownstone. No signs advertised services. Third-floor windows glowed softly, curtains not quite closed. A fire escape clung to the brick like a metal skeleton.
Seraph studied it from across the street, cataloging everything: the building's age, the fire escape's integrity, occupied apartments, the camera above the entrance—old, probably VHS.
When timing felt right, he moved.
He crossed between streetlights, melted into the alley, and climbed. The fire escape groaned softly but held. He moved up silently, using enhanced balance to distribute weight perfectly.
The third-floor window was unlocked.
Test or carelessness?
He slid it open, listening for alarms. Nothing. Just computer hum and stale coffee smell soaked into walls.
He slipped inside.
The office was small but meticulously organized. Three monitors glowed on a desk, displaying database interfaces and encrypted chats. Filing cabinets lined one wall, labeled with innocuous terms. A coffee maker burbled in the corner.
A man sat at the desk, back to the window, typing. Late forties, thinning gray hair, worn expensive shirt. He didn't look up.
"Fire escape is the tourist entrance," Marvin Kane said flatly. "Clients who know better use the door."
"Wanted to make sure you were alone."
"Smart." Kane stopped typing and turned. Sharp nickel-colored eyes cataloged Seraph in seconds. "You're young. Runaway? Witness protection? Or something more interesting?"
"Does it matter?"
Kane smiled thinly. "For pricing, yes. For judgment, no." He gestured to a chair. "Sit. Tell me what you need."
Seraph stayed standing. "Full identity. Birth certificate with hospital records, Social Security number, driver's license with valid history. Clean enough to survive background checks."
"Not cheap." Kane leaned back, fingers steepled. "Multiple database insertions, cross-referencing, building a trail that holds up under scrutiny. Four thousand dollars. Three weeks minimum."
"I need it in two days."
Kane's expression didn't change. "No. You *want* it in two days. What you need is for it to be done correctly."
"Two days." Seraph pulled out cash, counted three thousand dollars, placed it on the desk. "Three thousand now. Two thousand on delivery."
Kane stared at the money. "Rushing this work is how people end up in cells. I have a reputation because I don't make mistakes."
"I don't care about your process. I need it fast."
"Quality and speed both require extra." Kane picked up a bill, checked the watermark. "Five thousand total. And understand—if whoever's looking for you has federal resources, they'll spot the work eventually. My documents are good, not magic."
"I understand the risk."
Kane studied him, then sighed and pulled out a camera and plain paper form. "Name?"
"Seraph Senju."
Kane's pen paused. "Distinctive."
"I'm aware."
He wrote it down, gestured for Seraph to stand against the blank wall. "Photo. Don't smile. DMV photos are universally terrible—we match that aesthetic."
The camera flashed twice.
They worked through biographical details—date of birth, place of origin, basic history. Kane asked precise questions, occasionally suggesting adjustments for plausibility. Twenty minutes.
When finished, Kane swept the money into a locked drawer, key on a chain around his neck.
"Forty-eight hours. Same time. Use the door next time." He handed over a plain white business card with just a phone number. "If something changes, call that number. It'll ring three times then disconnect. Call back immediately."
Seraph pocketed the card and moved to the door.
"Why'd you agree?" he asked, hand on the knob.
Kane turned back to his monitors, fingers already typing. "Because five thousand dollars spends the same whether I like the client or not."
He resumed typing, dismissing Seraph without another word.
***
Seraph descended into Hell's Kitchen's neon-soaked darkness, carrying a receipt and a promise.
Two days until legal existence.
He was three blocks away when Spider-Sense prickled—not danger, but *attention*. Someone watching.
He didn't break stride. Peripheral vision cataloged everything: parked cars, fire escapes, shadows. There—third-floor window. Curtain moving.
Seraph turned at the next corner, used shop window reflections to track movement. Someone following, staying back. Professional.
Good. Let's see how professional.
He led the tail deeper into Hell's Kitchen's maze, taking deliberate routes—narrow alleys, dead ends, places where followers would have to commit. Testing.
Four blocks. Five. The tail stayed consistent, patient.
Seraph turned into a long alley, walking steadily toward the brick wall at its end. Dead end. Obvious trap.
He heard footsteps enter behind him, then stop.
"Fuck," a voice muttered—male, rough, local accent. "Dead end."
Seraph pressed his palm against the alley wall and grew. Thin roots snaked up silently, giving him handholds. He climbed fast, disappearing into shadow above.
The stalker stood in the alley's center, scanning, confused. Where'd the kid go?
A wooden spike erupted from the darkness behind him, punching through his back and out his chest with a wet crack.
The man gasped, trying to turn, trying to understand. He saw Seraph's silhouette descending from the wall, eyes cold and flat in the dim light.
Then he saw nothing.
He collapsed. Life faded before he hit the ground.
Seraph crouched beside the body, studying it clinically. Local muscle—cheap jacket, cheaper shoes, the kind of thug who took cash jobs asking no questions. Competent at tailing, but not competent enough.
He searched the corpse efficiently: a wallet with forty-three dollars and no ID, a flip phone with no contacts saved, a folding knife. Seraph took the cash and phone, left the knife.
Never waste anything, Hashirama's memories whispered. Wartime pragmatism.
He pressed both palms against the ground. Chakra pulsed downward, and the alley's concrete cracked. Earth shifted, opening like a hungry mouth. The body sank into it, pulled down by roots that would accelerate decomposition. In a week, there'd be nothing but bones, if that.
The concrete sealed itself as the roots withdrew.
Seraph stood, brushed dirt from his hands, and walked back out of the alley.
He took three different routes through Hell's Kitchen before heading toward Queens—doubling back, using reflections, checking rooftops. No more tails. No more watchers.
By the time he reached his motel, it was past midnight. He locked the door, engaged the chain, propped the chair.
Seraph pulled out the stolen smartphone, studying bank locations in Manhattan. He needed money. Banks had money.
His enhanced memory—Peter's knowledge of modern security systems layered seamlessly with Hashirama's wartime planning. Cameras. Patrol cycles. Response times.
The problem was almost trivial.
He selected a target: Midtown Savings & Trust.
Small enough to avoid federal attention. Large enough to solve his problems.
Two days until his identity arrived. One night to plan.
Tomorrow, he would become a bank robber.
The thought should have bothered him.
It didn't
End Chapter 6
A/N : Thank you for reading!
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Thanks again.