Night had claimed the city, wrapping its veins of concrete and steel in silence.
Inside an abandoned building, silence had been replaced by horror. The place stank of gunpowder, blood, and fear. A dim light flickered from a dying bulb overhead, its sickly glow twitching like a nervous heartbeat. Shadows stretched long and jagged, painting the carnage in strokes of madness.
Seraph sat atop a mound of bodies.
Still warm. Still bleeding. Lifeless eyes stared upward, glassy and unblinking, like a grotesque audience at a one-man play. He sat there without remorse, breathing steady, the only sound in the room the drip of blood onto broken tiles.
He had tracked them with ruthless precision—this gang of bank robbers, parasites fattened on stolen wealth. With Peter's knowledge of New York's veins and arteries and Hashirama's sharpened tracking instincts, they had been little more than mice in a maze. He found them before dinner. He ended them before they could blink.
The fight had been short, brutal, and one-sided. A test of skills—and a reminder of what he had become.
Now, rising from his throne of the dead, Seraph stepped lightly over cooling flesh. His boots made no sound. He was a ghost, moving with the quiet surety of a predator.
At the doorway, he paused. Then turned back. His hands blurred, fingers dancing through familiar seals.
"Fire Style: Fireball Jutsu."
The words slipped from his lips like judgment.
Flame roared forth, engulfing the pile of corpses. The bodies writhed as fat melted, the stink of burning flesh filling the ruin. In minutes, there would be nothing left but ash. Nothing for the police. Nothing for the curious.
"Tonight," Seraph muttered, voice low and cold, "the robbers who looted the bank have gone missing. They will never be found."
The firelight reflected in his eyes, not with warmth but with a hunter's satisfaction. By erasing them completely, he severed the final thread that connected him to that job.
When the last ember flickered, Seraph sifted through the wreckage of their hideout. Cash. Weapons. Black-market tech. He took it all—tools for the road ahead. Every resource mattered.
Finally, gathering chakra into his palm, he released a focused burst of projected energy. The force tore through walls, ripping the hideout room into ruin. Not the whole building—destroying it entirely would invite attention, a mistake. No. This was precision. Subtlety. When the authorities arrived, they would find nothing but the husk of a robber's nest. No bodies. No evidence. Only questions with no answers.
The case would wither, unclaimed, unclosed. Eventually, forgotten.
Seraph stepped out into the cool night air, the smell of smoke trailing behind him like a shadow. He carried more than he had come for—money, weapons, knowledge—and left behind nothing but silence and ash.
He walked on, the city unaware that its monsters had been culled, their disappearance swallowed by the dark.
***
Next Morning — Central Park
The city didn't care.
It was alive again.
That was the first thing Seraph noticed when he stepped out into the sunlight the next morning. Last night had been blood and screams, a chamber of silence filled with corpses. But here, in Manhattan, it was laughter, car horns, and the sound of pigeons scattering from a food cart.
Seraph—hood pulled low, jacket zipped tight—walked through Central Park like any other faceless New Yorker. The air was crisp, carrying with it the sounds of joggers' sneakers slapping against the pavement, children shrieking with laughter as they chased one another, and the soft, stumbling melody of a saxophone played by a street musician on the corner.
It was absurd. Almost offensive.
How the world went on like nothing had happened while a dozen corpses still smoked in an abandoned building across the river.
He sank into a bench, slouching back, pretending for once that he belonged to this world of sunlight and idle chatter. A group of kids were shooting hoops nearby on a cracked court, the ball echoing with each bounce. For reasons he couldn't quite pin down, he found himself watching them longer than expected. Their arguments over fouls, their bragging, their laughter—it was… grounding.
For a moment, he almost believed he was just another guy killing time in the city.
"Enjoying the show?"
The voice cut through his thoughts. He glanced sideways. A girl stood there, arms folded, the faintest smirk on her lips. Blonde hair caught the sunlight like spun gold, her casual clothes almost understated compared to her sharp eyes.
Liz Allan.
"Funny seeing you again."
She was standing there in casual clothes—denim jacket, hair loose, coffee cup in hand. Her face brightened in surprise, though her expression quickly softened into something like amusement.
"You," Seraph said, blinking. He hadn't expected this. Of all the faces in New York, why hers—again?
"Well, if it isn't the mysterious hero of purses," she teased, her tone playful but warm.
Seraph gave a half-smile, tilting his head. "And if it isn't the generous sponsor of haircuts."
Liz chuckled and sat down beside him, stretching her legs out. "Glad to see it worked out. Looks like you've been taking care of it."
"Trying to," he replied, brushing a strand of hair back absently. "Not every day someone else foots the bill for a stranger's new look. I still feel like I owe you for that."
"You don't," Liz said, shaking her head"Honestly, it was nice to do something small, for once. My life used to be… loud. Dramatic. Now I'm keeping things simple."
Seraph raised an eyebrow, curious but not prying. "Simple's underrated."
She sipped her drink, glancing toward the kids on the court. "Exactly. College, classes, part-time job. No drama, no crazy stories. Just… normal."
"Normal sounds like a dream," Seraph muttered, more to himself than to her
Liz glanced at him, caught the tone, but didn't press. Instead, she smiled."You look… different." Liz gave a little smile, eyeing him carefully. "You look…" she eyed him sidelong, "…a little less haunted than last time."
"Is that your polite way of saying I looked like hell before?"
"Pretty much," she said, sipping her coffee. "But hey, progress."
That actually got a faint chuckle out of him. A thin crack in his usual guarded mask.
She tilted her head. "You are the quiet type, huh"
"I like listening."
"That so?" She sipped her coffee, studying him for a beat before sitting on the fountain's edge beside him.
She sipped her drink, glancing toward the kids on the court.
"So," she continued, "what's your story, Seraph? You just… wander around saving purses and lurking in barber shops?"
He leaned back, gaze drifting toward the basketball court where a kid nailed a perfect three-pointer. "Something like that. Let's just say I'm… figuring things out. No map. Just walking until I find one."
"Like a stray dog"
"Well," she said, nudging his arm lightly with her elbow, "even strays deserve a place to rest. Or at least someone to share a coffee with."
Her warmth was disarming, a sharp contrast to the carnage still echoing in his mind. For her, life was moving forward — business classes, stability, normalcy. For him, it was all shadows and sharp edges. Yet in this quiet slice of morning, the distance between their worlds didn't feel so wide.
"Maybe next time I'll let you buy me one," he said softly.
That made her laugh, the sound light and warm"Deal." She smile — not the polite smile she wore out of habit, but something genuine.
"Well, I hope you find a good spot to sit. Maybe one with decent coffee."
For the first time in a long time, Seraph felt the weight on his chest ease, just slightly.
The two fell into a comfortable silence, watching the basketball game unfold. It wasn't charged or dramatic—just a slice of ordinary life. For a moment, neither felt the weight of their pasts.
End of chapter.