Darkness.
Someone was crying—broken, hitching sobs that echoed off concrete walls.
Wet sounds. Impact. The crack of something giving way.
Gunfire—three shots in rapid succession, muzzle flash painting the darkness orange for split seconds.
Then silence.
Heavy breathing. Not labored. Controlled.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Each one resonating like a judge's gavel.
A voice in the dark—young, terrified: "Jesus Christ, please—"
The footsteps stopped.
A different voice. Synthesized. Flat. Emotionless:
"Found you."
Screaming—
—cut to black.
***
TWENTY MINUTES EARLIER
The abandoned meatpacking plant on West 39th hadn't processed meat in fifteen years.
Now it processed different business.
Twelve men occupied the main floor—Marcos "Scorpion" Vega's crew, the Scorpios, Hell's Kitchen's up-and-coming operation. They'd carved territory from three collapsing gangs, moved product efficiently, kept body counts low enough to avoid major heat.
Smart. Disciplined. Profitable.
Tonight was payday.
"Two hundred forty thousand," Javier—Marcos's lieutenant, scarred knuckles and prison tattoos—counted the last stack and pushed it across the table. "Your cut, boss."
Marcos Vega nodded, not touching the money yet. Mid-thirties, expensive watch, tailored jacket over a Glock. He looked more like a real estate developer than a drug dealer. Intentional.
"Good month," he said. "Torres's territory is ours now. His people are either working for us or working for nobody."
Scattered laughter from the crew. Tommy—youngest member, twenty-two, still proving himself—grinned. "Heard Torres got picked up by ICE."
"Heard wrong." Marcos sipped coffee from a thermos. "Torres got picked up by someone else. Then disappeared."
The laughter died.
"Someone else?" Javier frowned. "Triads?"
"Don't know. Don't care. He's gone, we're here, business continues." Marcos surveyed his crew with the calm authority of someone who'd earned respect through competence, not fear. "But stay sharp. Word on the street is people are disappearing. Crews we know, soldiers who don't fuck up, just... gone."
Tommy shifted uncomfortably. "I heard—"
"Ghost stories," Marcos cut him off. "Urban legends. This city's full of them. Stay focused on what matters: money, territory, staying out of prison."
"Or worse," someone muttered.
"There is no worse." Marcos stood. "Two hours, we're done here. Count your shares, go home, don't get arrested."
Professional. Organized. Just another night in the criminal underworld's endless churn.
At 11:47 PM, the lights flickered.
Conversation paused. Everyone looked up at the fluorescent fixtures buzzing overhead.
The lights stabilized.
"Wiring in this shithole is fucked," Javier said, returning to his count.
Nervous laughter. Tension released.
At 11:49 PM, the lights died completely.
Total darkness. Emergency backup didn't kick in.
"The fuck?" Tommy fumbled for his phone.
Someone else: "Check the breaker—"
Gunshots.
Three rapid cracks—muzzle flash illuminating someone firing blindly into darkness.
Then screaming began.
***
Tommy's Pov
Tommy's phone flashlight finally activated, hands shaking.
"Guys?" His voice cracked. "What—"
A wet crack to his left. Someone—Rodriguez?—stopped screaming mid-word.
Tommy swung his light toward the sound. Nothing. Just darkness.
Breathing behind him. Slow. Steady. Calm.
He spun—
Something white in the darkness. Bone-white armor, reflective lenses catching his light like animal eyes.
Tommy's gun was in his hand before conscious thought. He raised it—
A line shot from the figure's wrist and yanked the weapon away.
Tommy ran. Made it five steps.
His legs stopped working.
He looked down, confused. Wood—a spike thick as his wrist—protruded from his chest.
When did—
He fell forward. Face hit concrete.
The last thing Tommy saw was his own blood pooling in his dropped phone's beam, spreading in perfect circles.
Then nothing.
***
Javier's Pov
Javier fired blind into darkness. Muzzle flash strobed—walls, machinery, bodies—
—something on the ceiling—
—gone.
His slide locked back. Empty.
He fumbled for a spare magazine—
The dragging sound started. Something heavy pulled across concrete. Wet. A gurgling that might have been breathing through a destroyed throat.
Silence.
Javier's hands shook too badly. The magazine clattered to the floor.
Something dropped from above. Landed in front of him.
A dropped flashlight caught the figure: bone-white armor splattered red, bronze plating, reflective lenses like insect eyes.
"Run."
Javier ran.
Made it twelve feet before something punched through his calf—wooden spike from the floor.
He went down screaming, clutching his leg.
The figure walked toward him slowly. Not rushing. Each footstep deliberate.
Javier rolled onto his back, hand raised. "Wait wait please—"
A blade deployed—*snikt*—eight inches of sharpened wood.
"I have kids—"
The blade came down.
***
Marcos's Perspective
Marcos had made it to the back office.
Shoved the desk against the door, breathing hard, Glock in both hands. Three rounds left—he'd fired at shadows, hit nothing, conserved what remained.
Outside: his crew dying. Gunfire had stopped two minutes ago. Screaming stopped one minute ago.
Now: silence.
Marcos pressed his back against the wall, gun aimed at the barricaded door.
What the fuck is out there?
The door didn't break down.
It just... opened.
The desk was lifted by wooden constructs, set aside gently.
The figure stepped through.
Covered in blood that wasn't its own. Bone-white armor turned crimson-black. Holding something—a severed hand, still wearing Miguel's ring.
The figure dropped it.
Walked forward.
Marcos fired all three rounds—center mass, perfect grouping.
Two missed. One hit.
The figure didn't stagger.
Click. Click. Click.
Empty.
The figure's hand rose—not threatening, just... gesturing.
Marcos blinked.
***
The room shifted.
He was outside.
Street. Cool night air against his face. The meatpacking plant a block behind him, already fading like a bad dream.
I got out. Holy shit, I actually got out.
Marcos leaned against a brick wall, legs shaking. His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone.
"I need to call—who? Police? No, too many questions. Javier—no, Javier is—"
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to think.
Lawyer. Call the lawyer. Get ahead of this. Claim we were attacked, self-defense—
He opened his eyes.
The phone felt wrong. Too light. Too warm.
The street looked... off. Buildings too sharp. Shadows at incorrect angles.
When did I—
Pain.
Sudden. Absolute. Exploding up his left side.
Marcos looked down.
His leg was gone. Severed at the knee, blood pumping. His right arm—missing from the elbow, white bone visible through shredded meat.
He tried to scream but couldn't draw breath.
The world lurched.
Not the street anymore.
Main floor. Sitting on concrete. The figure sat atop a mountain of eleven corpses—his crew, piled like sandbags.
Blood pooling. The smell—copper and shit and death.
This isn't real. Can't be real. I escaped. I was outside—
But the pain in his missing limbs said otherwise.
Marcos stared at the figure, trying to understand what had happened, when it had happened, if any of it had been real—
The figure tilted its head, watching him.
***
Marcos pressed against the wall, staring at the thing perched three feet away.
Around them: eleven corpses. Blood pooling. The smell overwhelming.
The figure tilted its head. Curious. Patient.
"Who—" Marcos's voice cracked. He swallowed, forced steel into it. "Who the fuck are you?"
The synthesized voice came from everywhere and nowhere:
"Arbor."
"What do you want? Money? Territory?" Marcos scrambled for leverage, found none. "We can make a deal—"
"I want nothing you can provide."
"Then why?" The fear curdled into rage. "Why do this? What's the fucking point?"
Silence. The reflective lenses stared without expression.
Then, with the casual honesty of someone discussing the weather:
"I wanted to see how far I could go."
Marcos stared. "What?"
"To test the limits of my abilities"
A pause.
"Adequate results."
The casual dismissal—twelve lives reduced to data points—hit harder than any threat could have.
"You're a monster," Marcos said, voice cold now, stripped of fear. "You're worse than anyone I've—"
The figure moved.
Not fast enough to be invisible. Fast enough that Marcos couldn't track it.
The hidden blade deployed—snikt—and swept horizontally.
Marcos felt pressure. Heard scissors through paper.
Then his perspective shifted.
Tilted.
Fell.
His last thought, watching his own body collapse from an impossible angle:Was any of it real?
***
Seraph stood over the body, retracting the blade.
"Talks too much," he said to the empty room, "for someone so weak."
He paused.
"I don't need moral lectures from drug dealers."
The synthesized voice carried no emotion. Just fact.
He turned away, surveying the carnage.
Twelve dead. Various methods. Efficient.
His chakra reserves: barely scratched.
Seraph moved through the bodies methodically:Cash, weapons, phones—everything sealed into a storage scroll. Compressed.
Then he formed the seals.
Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu.
Orange-red flames erupted, consuming the first corpse. The smell was horrific—burnt hair, cooked meat, melting synthetics.
He moved systematically, cremating each body.
When all twelve were burning, he channeled Wood Release into the support beams—dry timber that caught and spread flames faster.
By the time he left through the roof access, the structure was engulfed.
Seraph stood on the adjacent rooftop, watching orange light paint the night sky.
He looked at his hands—armor splattered red.
The fight had required minimal effort. But the hunt—the stalking, the terror in their eyes, the moment they understood they were prey—that had been different.
He felt it clearly now: enjoyment.
Not the killing itself. That was mechanics.
But the hunt. The power. The control.
This is what I am now.
Not victim. Not survivor.
Predator.
He disappeared into shadow, leaving twelve corpses and a burning building behind.
***
ONE MONTH LATER
Rosie's Diner - 9:17 AM
Morning sunlight filled the diner like liquid gold. The breakfast rush had passed—just a handful of regulars remained.
The TV played news on low volume.
"—body count now stands at forty confirmed dead over the past month,"
the anchor said. "Police are calling the suspect 'Midnight Cinderella' due to cryptic messages left at several crime scenes."
Seraph sat in a corner booth, positioned to see both door and TV, pretending to read. TheStranger by Camus.
He'd showered, dressed in clothes that said "college student": dark jeans, plain henley, leather jacket. His red hair was neat, trimmed. He looked like any other twenty-something grabbing breakfast.
The detective on TV spoke: "—pattern suggests military training. Victims are exclusively criminals. But we want to be clear: this is murder."
Seraph turned a page without reading it.
"The messages are particularly disturbing," the detective continued. "A black screen with a corrupted image—vintage Grimm's Fairy Tales illustration. Cinderella. The stepsisters cutting their toes off. Blood and desperation. After thirty seconds, the devices fry themselves."
The anchor: "Why Cinderella?"
"We're analyzing the symbolism. The fairytale involves transformation at midnight. But honestly, it may simply be dark humor. We're dealing with someone highly intelligent who finds this... amusing."
Seraph's lips twitched. Accurate.
The waitress approached—Emma. Mid-twenties, auburn hair, practical ponytail.
"Morning," she said, smiling. "You're becoming a regular."
"Coffee's good. Atmosphere's better." Seraph looked up, returning the smile. "Plus the service is excellent."
Emma's cheeks colored. "Flatterer. What can I get you?"
"Scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon—no beef—extra bacon, double portions. Orange juice, coffee, wheat toast."
She raised an eyebrow at the portions. "Hollow leg?"
"Fast metabolism."
"I'll get this in." She paused. "I'm Emma, by the way."
"Seraph."
"That's unusual."
"So's Emma. Classic, though. Timeless."
Her smile brightened. "Enjoy your breakfast, Seraph."
As she walked away, the TV chyron changed:
MUTANT REGISTRATION ACT GAINS CONGRESSIONAL SUPPORT
Senator Kelly's face filled the screen: "—cannot allow unregulated individuals with dangerous abilities to operate without oversight. Yesterday's incident in Brooklyn demonstrates exactly why we need comprehensive registration and monitoring—"
The customer at the counter—construction worker by his worn Carhartt—grunted. "About damn time. These freaks think they're above the law."
His younger companion disagreed: "They're just people. You can't legislate genetics—"
"People don't throw cars. People don't shoot lasers from their eyes. They're dangerous."
Seraph listened with detached interest, taking a slow sip of water.
Mutants. The X-gene. Convenient scapegoat for anyone with abilities.
The distinction mattered legally. Not that he planned on being caught.
The TV switched back to Midnight Cinderella. Crime scene footage—blurred, but recognizable: burned-out buildings, ash patterns.
"—no usable forensic evidence at any scene. No fingerprints, DNA, fibers. The level of care suggests extensive training or abilities that make conventional evidence irrelevant."
"Early scenes showed complete erasure," another detective added. "But recently, we've found bodies. Left deliberately. As if the killer wants us to know."
A psychologist: "The transition from anonymity to leaving bodies suggests escalation. The subject is no longer satisfied with simply eliminating targets. They want impact."
Seraph took a bite of toast.
Not recognition. Challenge.
He'd stopped erasing bodies two weeks ago. Early phase required invisibility—learning, refining, operating without interference. But once his capabilities were confirmed, anonymity became limitation.
Leaving evidence forced his targets to prepare. Made them scared. Made them dangerous.
Made them interesting.
The construction worker spoke again: "Least he's only killing criminals. My cousin lives in Hell's Kitchen, says she feels safer now."
His companion shook his head. "Still murder. Doesn't matter who the victims are."
"Does to me. Scorpios disappeared—neighborhood's been quiet since."
Emma returned with his coffee. "Here you go. Food'll be up in five."
"Thanks." He added sugar, stirred. "You're not from around here originally, are you?"
She blinked. "How'd you—"
"Accent. Midwest? Subtle,but it's there."
"Ohio." She leaned against the booth's edge. "Came for college, stayed for the chaos."
"Chaos has its appeal."
"You seem like you'd know." She studied him. "What do you do?"
"Freelance. Consulting." The lie came easily. "Flexible schedule."
"Lucky." She glanced at the TV. "What do you think? About Midnight Cinderella?"
Seraph considered carefully. Not too interested, not dismissive. Just normal.
"Cities are ecosystems. Remove one predator, another fills the niche. Whether that's better or worse depends on which prey you are."
Emma studied him, then smiled uncertainly. "That's very philosophical for nine AM."
"Coffee hasn't kicked in yet."
She laughed and left.
The TV cycled through stories:
Spider-Man stopping a bodega robbery—footage of the red-and-blue figure swinging away while the crowd cheered. J. Jonah Jameson's face appeared immediately after: "MENACE! Wall-crawling vigilante interfering with police work! When will this city learn—"
Stark Industries stock prices.
Weather.
Back to Midnight Cinderella.
Emma delivered his food—massive portions, exactly as ordered.
"Here you go. Need anything else?"
"Perfect. Thank you, Emma."
She smiled and left. Seraph ate methodically, savoring taste more than nutrition.
The TV showed more footage, more analysis. Forty dead in one month.
Somewhere in the city, people were preparing. Getting scared. Getting armed.
Getting dangerous.
Seraph finished his meal, left cash—exact amount plus thirty percent tip—and stood.
Emma caught his eye from behind the counter. He smiled, waved.
She waved back, blushing.
He glanced at the TV one last time.
"—public advised to avoid confrontation and contact authorities—"
Seraph pushed through the door into morning sunlight.
The city spread before him. Eight million people. Somewhere in that chaos, dangerous men moved through their routines.
Unaware.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled through the encrypted list.
Dozens of names. Dozens of targets.
All of them learning to be afraid.
He pocketed the phone and started walking.
The sun climbed higher.
The hunt continued.
End Chapter 10