Two Days After the Heist
3:47 PM
The office looked exactly the same.
Same three monitors glowing softly. Same filing cabinets. Same coffee maker burbling in the corner. Marvin Kane sat behind his desk, fingers moving across a keyboard with rhythmic precision.
He didn't look up when Seraph entered through the door—the proper entrance this time.
"Punctual," Kane said, still typing. "I appreciate that."
"You said forty-eight hours."
"So I did." Kane finished his work, saved it, then turned to face Seraph properly. His nickel-colored eyes held something new—curiosity, maybe. Or professional pride.
He pulled open a drawer and removed a manila envelope.
"Seraph Senju," Kane said, setting it on the desk. "Born November 17, 2007, Mount Sinai Hospital, Manhattan. Mother deceased, father unknown, raised by grandmother in Queens until her death last year. Recently emancipated, currently eighteen."
Seraph said nothing.
"Social Security number is active with plausible history. Birth certificate has hospital records backing it. Driver's license is legitimate DMV issue." Kane smiled thinly. "You passed your road test with an eighty-seven, by the way. Believable."
"Thorough."
"Expensive. There's a difference." Kane slid the envelope across. "Everything you need. Birth certificate, SSN card, license, passport—though I'd avoid international travel for six months. State databases are forgiving. Federal ones have longer memories."
Seraph examined each document. The birth certificate felt appropriately aged. The Social Security card had the right texture, the right font. The license photo showed his face with proper holographic overlay.
*Real. I'm actually real.*
The thought hit harder than expected. Two weeks ago he'd been Subject-#SP07, a failed experiment marked for termination. Now he was a person with a birthday, a history, a legal right to exist.
He pulled out an envelope of his own—two thousand dollars in used bills—and set it beside Kane's keyboard.
Kane counted it anyway. Professional habit. Satisfied, the money disappeared.
"Pleasure doing business. Don't come back."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"Good." Kane returned to his typing. "Because if you do, it means something went wrong with my work. And I have a reputation to maintain."
Seraph pocketed the envelope and stood. "Your work is solid."
The door closed with a soft click. Seraph stepped into Hell's Kitchen's afternoon chaos, the envelope in his jacket feeling heavier than it should.
He held the driver's license up briefly, studying his own face printed on official documentation. A smile tugged at his lips—small, genuine, surprising him with its existence.
I'm real now. Seraph Senju. That's me.
***
The Next Morning
The bank was aggressively normal.
Chrome and glass, fake plants, motivational posters about "Building Your Future." Seraph stood in line behind a woman arguing about overdraft fees, biting back a smile at the irony.
He'd robbed a bank a week ago. Now he was opening an account in a different one.
The teller—young woman, JESSICA on her name tag, professionally warm smile—greeted him with practiced efficiency.
"Good morning! How can I help you?"
"I'd like to open a checking account."
"Wonderful! Do you have identification?"
He slid his new license across. She examined it briefly, typed information, handed it back.
"Will you be making an initial deposit?"
"Fifty thousand."
Her fingers paused for a fraction of a second. Then the smile brightened. "Excellent. Cash or check?"
"Cash."
The process was smooth—forms, signatures, temporary checks, debit card. The cash was counted in a back room by Jessica and a supervisor, verified, recorded, deposited. Fifty thousand dollars transformed from physical bills into digital numbers.
Seraph watched it happen with dark amusement. The system was designed to track and control, but here he was using it as camouflage. Hiding in plain sight behind paperwork and politeness.
The best place to disappear is in the crowd.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Senju?"
"No, that's everything. Thank you."
"Welcome to Chase. Have a great day!"
He walked out into sunlight, legally documented and financially legitimate. Not satisfaction exactly—more like relief mixed with vindication.
One more piece in place.
***
Later That Week
Seraph sat cross-legged in his motel room, eleven million dollars in cash stacked around him in neat piles, and began the tedious work of sealing it away.
Storage scrolls weren't complicated—basic fuinjutsu, the kind any competent shinobi could manage. Hashirama's memories provided the framework: concentric circles, compression seals, retrieval triggers keyed to his chakra signature.
He'd purchased fifty blank scrolls from an art supply store, explaining he was a calligraphy student. The clerk had been enthusiastic and unhelpful in equal measure.
Now those scrolls lay before him, and Seraph began the methodical work of inscription. Black ink, steady hand, each character precise. The sealing arrays had to be perfect—one mistake and the scroll could rupture, destroying everything inside.
Two hours per scroll. Eight scrolls total.
Scroll 1: $1.5M
Scroll 2: $1.5M
Scroll 3: $1.5M
Scroll 4: $1.5M
Scroll 5: $1.5M
Scroll 6: $1.5M
Scroll 7: $1.5M
Scroll 8: $1.35M
He activated each seal carefully, watching cash compress and vanish into dimensional storage. The scrolls grew warm in his hands as they accepted their contents, then cooled.
Efficient. Secure. Completely untraceable.
The remaining $500,000 in operating capital fit into a single scroll, which he kept on his person at all times.
Simple. Clean. Professional.
He rolled the eight primary scrolls carefully, secured them with cord, and stored them in his duffel bag. Once he had permanent shelter, they'd go somewhere even safer.
But for now, this would do.
***
House
"You understand the property has a... history."
Sandra Kowalski—real estate agent, fifties, professional blazer—stood outside 1247 Clarence Street with arms crossed and expression carefully neutral.
Seraph looked up at the house. Victorian architecture gone to seed, paint peeling, shutters crooked, weeds reaching the porch. The windows were dark, reflecting nothing.
"History," he repeated.
Sandra chose her words carefully. "The previous owner, Margaret Keene... she killed three people in this house between 1985 and 1987. Neighbors, a delivery man, a social worker. With knives and rope, over the course of two years."
Seraph said nothing.
"They only found her after weeks of... smell. The police discovered her hanging in the upstairs hallway. And the others." Sandra paused. "All subsequent tenants have reported encounters. Sounds, cold spots, apparitions. Most don't last a month. The property has been on the market for eighteen months."
"And the price?"
"Eighty-seven thousand. As-is."
Seraph did the math. Victorian in this neighborhood should list for four hundred thousand minimum. The murder history had destroyed the value completely.
Perfect.
"I'd like to see inside."
Sandra blinked. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
The interior was exactly as expected: dated fixtures, peeling wallpaper, creaking floors. Dust covered everything. The air smelled like mildew and old wood and something faintly sour.
Sandra maintained her professional patter—original hardwood, functioning plumbing, electrical updated in the nineties, full basement, attic access.
Seraph barely listened. He was feeling the house through senses he was still learning to use. Peter's spatial awareness. Hashirama's connection to organic materials. His own emerging instinct for territory.
The house was solid beneath the neglect. Good bones. Defensible. Isolated by reputation more than distance.
And yes—something was here. Not dangerous exactly. Just... waiting.
"I'll take it," Seraph said. "Eighty-seven thousand, cash, close in three days if possible."
Sandra's professional mask slipped. "Mr. Senju, I have to advise—people have died here. The paranormal activity is documented—"
"I don't believe in ghosts."
Liar, Peter's memories whispered. You know they're real.
Of course they're real, Seraph thought back. That's why the price is right.
Sandra studied him for a long moment, clearly torn between professional duty and commission. Commission won.
"I'll call the seller's agent."
***
Three Days Later
The keys to 1247 Clarence Street felt significant in Seraph's hand.
He stood on the porch—his porch—holding three brass keys on a ring. Sandra had left minutes ago, paperwork signed, cash transferred, property legally his.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The feeling that washed over him was unexpected: not just satisfaction, but something deeper. More primal.
Mine.
This wasn't a motel room he'd flee from at the first sign of danger. Not temporary shelter. This was home—however strange that word felt in his mouth.
Seraph walked through each room slowly, already planning. First floor: living room, kitchen, dining area, bathroom. Second floor: three bedrooms, bathroom. Third floor: attic. Basement: unfinished, concrete floor, exposed beams.
The presence he'd sensed during the walkthrough was still here, dormant. Waiting for nightfall, probably.
Let it wait.
He set his duffel bag down in what would be his bedroom—second floor, corner room, windows facing two directions for visibility and escape routes.
For the first time since waking in that pod, Seraph allowed himself to feel genuine excitement.
I have a house. I have money. I have power. I have freedom.
This is actually happening.
He smiled—broader this time, almost giddy—and started planning renovations.
***
Night Three.
2:17 AM
The cold woke him.
Instant, absolute, like someone had opened a freezer door above his sleeping bag. His breath misted in the air, visible in faint moonlight.
Seraph sat up slowly, senses extending.
The house was wrong.
Shadows moved against light, pooling in corners that shouldn't be dark. And from above: scraaaape... scraaaape... scraaaape.
Something heavy dragging across floorboards.
He stood and walked into the hallway. Each step dropped the temperature further. His breath came in thick plumes. The dragging sound grew louder—overhead but also behind, directionless.
Then he saw her.
Margaret Keene materialized at the hallway's end. Not fading in—just suddenly there. She hung from a noose that connected to nothing, neck twisted at an impossible angle. Her face was gray-blue, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.
She lunged.
Stop-motion movement—here, then three feet closer, then five feet closer. Temperature plummeted. Frost spread across walls. The air itself seemed to scream.
Seraph's body tensed instinctively. Not fear exactly, but recognition. This was a threat.
Then Hashirama's memories supplied context: Tailed Beasts. Edo Tensei. Bijuu battles that leveled mountains.
His heartbeat slowed. Tension left his shoulders.
I've inherited memories of gods and monsters. You're just a woman who couldn't let go.
Almost pitiful, really.
He raised one hand and pushed.
Wood Release responded. A small bottle—intricate, carved with sealing kanji—grew from his palm. Dark wood, aged and dense.
The ghost was two feet away when he spoke three words and formed three seals—Rat, Horse, Tiger—in less than a second.
"Stay. In. Here."
The bottle's mouth opened.
Margaret Keene's scream finally became audible—high, piercing, inhuman. But sound cut off as she was pulled inside, form stretching like smoke into a vacuum. Gray flesh became translucent, became mist, became nothing.
The cork sealed itself with a soft pop.
Kanji glowed green for three seconds, then faded.
Silence. Temperature normalized. Shadows stopped moving.
Seraph held the bottle to moonlight. Something glowed faintly inside, formless and angry.
"This is my house now," he said quietly. "You can stay. But you stay in there."
He walked downstairs and set the bottle on the mantle above the cold fireplace.
A trophy. A reminder. A conversation piece.
Then he went back to bed, genuinely satisfied with how that had gone.
***
The Depths - Week Two
The basement was empty except for concrete, support beams, and faint water damage smell.
Seraph stood in its center, both palms pressed flat against the floor, and began pushing chakra downward.
Wood Release was more than violence. At its core, it was creation—the transformation of nothing into structure, the imposition of will onto reality.
Hashirama had built Konoha this way.
Seraph wasn't building a village. But he was building something.
Roots spread beneath concrete, following his intent, growing downward through packed earth and clay and bedrock. A spiral staircase descending into darkness, each step solid and smooth.
Ten feet. Twenty. Thirty.
The chakra cost was significant but manageable. His reserves drained from 94% to 85%, then 75%, then 65%.
Forty feet. Fifty. Sixty.
At sixty feet—below street level, below sewers, deep in bedrock beneath New York City—Seraph stopped descending and started creating space.
The chamber grew from his will. Smooth wooden walls expanding outward in a perfect circle, forty feet in diameter. Vaulted ceiling twenty feet overhead, supported by pillars that grew naturally like trees in a cathedral. Smaller rooms branching off—storage, workshop, living quarters—each purpose-built.
The wood was alive. Warm. Responsive. He could feel it like his own heartbeat.
Hours passed. Sweat soaked his shirt. His reserves dropped to 45%.
But when he finally stopped, hands trembling with exhaustion, Seraph stood in the center of something he'd built.
Not scavenged. Not stolen. Not borrowed.
Created from nothing but will and chakra.
Holy shit.
Wonder and pride mixed in equal measure. He pressed his palm against the wall, channeling a final thread of power.
Bioluminescent fungi began to grow—cultivated varieties from Hashirama's botanical knowledge. They spread across walls and ceiling, producing soft green-blue light without heat or toxicity.
The chamber filled with gentle luminescence, like standing underwater in a tropical reef.
Seraph stood in the center, breathing hard, and let himself feel it.
Awe.
This was his. He'd made this. And no one could take it from him.
***
Week 2 - Day 1
The underground base was complete.
Main Chamber: 40-foot diameter, training space, open ceiling for vertical movement. Bio-luminescent lighting constant and steady.
Workshop: Benches carved from solid wood, tool storage, workstations for equipment creation.
Armory: Sealed room, climate-controlled, weapon racks. Currently empty but ready.
Storage Vaults: Three sealed chambers, each requiring his chakra signature to open. The eight scrolls containing eleven million dollars rested in the primary vault, protected by wood, stone, and sealing techniques that would kill anyone who tried to force entry.
Living Quarters: Small room, bedding grown from the floor (surprisingly comfortable), minimal but functional.
Emergency Exit: Tunnel northeast, surfacing three blocks away in an abandoned lot. Collapsed and regrown on command.
Seraph stood at the chamber's center, cataloging what he'd accomplished.
Above: a murder house that kept neighbors away.
Below: a fortress that didn't exist on any map.
Legal identity in his wallet. Money secured in scrolls. Territory claimed above and below ground.
He looked at his hands—hands that could grow forests, shoot webs, seal spirits.
A grin spread across his face. Genuine. Excited. Almost boyish.
I have superpowers. I have money. I have a secret base. This is actually real.
The absurdity and wonder of it hit him all at once.
Two weeks ago he'd been drowning in a pod, marked for termination. Now he was standing sixty feet underground in a base he'd grown from nothing, with abilities that shouldn't exist and resources most people would never see.
Now I find out what I can really do.
The thought wasn't grim determination. It was anticipation.
Outside, the city continued its endless churn. Inside his haunted house with a sealed ghost on his mantle, Seraph Senju stood alone above his secret fortress.
Foundation complete.
Ready for whatever came next.
End Chapter 8