Sarah wandering in Hell's Kitchen

This place was one of those rare gems of Hell's Kitchen—a spot that oozed character, gritty as hell, but with something undeniable about it. The kind of place you only fully understand when it's dark, when the lights flicker and the city's heart beats louder in the shadows. The bars here weren't all polished up—they were real. You could feel the raw energy in the air, from the dim, flickering lights to the restlessness in the crowd, people weaving through each other, loud and alive. The women stood out, dressed in bold colors, loud in their makeup, their perfume heavy enough to choke you, sweet and sickly in the best way. And the guys? Burly, tattooed, swaggering around like they owned every inch of this street. Street-smart and rough, all thick with that gritty Black street talk that painted the whole scene with an edge.

One of those guys walked up to me.

He wasn't anything I couldn't handle—just a drunk looking to pick a fight, a way to unload whatever crap was weighing on him. But with my curves, delicate features, and the way I was dressed—skin-tight, colorful, long-sleeve hoodie dress and knee-high black boots—I probably stuck out like a sore thumb in a place like this. Not exactly the gritty vibe that fit the crowd, but that's never stopped anyone from making me their target.

The second he stretched out his hand, covered in who-knows-what, I knew exactly how this was going to go.

I didn't flinch. I pinched his fingers, twisted them hard, giving him a look of disgust. He yelped in pain, stumbling back, but even that didn't seem to make him think twice. With a drunken growl, he kicked at me, but it was nothing I couldn't handle.

I stood up, grabbed his foot, and with barely any effort, tossed him like he was weightless. He flew through the air in a perfect arc, crashing into the bar's door, slamming into the street outside with a thud.

I brushed my hands off, took my seat again. For a moment, it was dead quiet. All the mocking laughter, all the curious stares—they faded. Like I'd flipped a switch. I adjusted my sunglasses, took a sip of my soda. It was bland, tasteless even.

Earlier tonight, I'd retrieved the second prototype from Scott Martin right here in Hell's Kitchen. I didn't expect any trouble, just a quick stop for a drink before heading back. But trouble found me anyway.

The drunk was still muttering curses as he staggered off into the night, holding his ribs like he'd learned a hard lesson. I could've left then—probably should have—but this was Hell's Kitchen. If you weren't stirring up trouble, were you even really here? And besides, when I overheard a whisper that he might come back with backup, I figured, why not stick around and see where the night went?

Fifteen minutes later, I drained the last of my soda and stepped outside. Sure enough, the guy was back, but this time, he'd brought company—three or four rough-looking types with the same bad attitude and worse hygiene.

"That's the one!" he wheezed, pointing a trembling finger at me like a B-grade villain in an old noir flick.

Front and center was a stocky guy with a face like a bulldog and a permanent grimace. Something about him screamed organized trouble.

"Russian mafia?" I muttered under my breath. The sharp cheekbones, the tracksuits, the heavy accents—it was like a checklist of clichés.

"You're dead, bitch!" the leader growled, sneering as he pulled out what looked like a compact weapon—a tube-shaped object that probably wasn't for fixing plumbing. He charged, and his lackeys weren't far behind.

I cracked my neck, took a deep breath, and didn't even flinch.

They were fast, sure—but I was faster. Dodging their strikes was child's play, and when I finally hit back, it wasn't subtle. A punch here, a kick there, and before long, the whole lot of them was sprawled out on the pavement, groaning and clutching various body parts like they'd been hit by a truck.

The drunk guy—the one who started all this—was the only one still standing. Barely. His bravado had evaporated, replaced by wide-eyed terror as he stumbled backward, hands up in surrender.

"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" he shrieked, voice cracking as I advanced with a smirk.

"It's fine," I said, almost kindly. "I've got quick hands. You'll barely feel it."

He didn't seem comforted. In fact, he went pale as a ghost, mumbling something about monsters and devils. Then, with a sudden burst of desperation, he whipped out a handgun and fired.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The shots echoed through the night, sending a few birds scattering from nearby streetlights. But that was all the bullets hit. I held up my hand, and one by one, the deformed slugs dropped from my palm. A fourth had grazed my hoodie dress, but even that hadn't done much damage.

I took a moment to inspect the material. Hmm. Graphene-carbon nanotube composite, reinforced with nanobot weaving. The fabric had done its job perfectly, stopping the bullet cold. It wasn't quite on par with what Kara's composite material in progress, but for a prototype, it was solid.

The drunk stared at me, his face a mix of disbelief and horror. "M-monster…" he stammered, stumbling back and losing what little composure he had left.

I raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Monster? Seriously? You're blind, dude. I'm a masterpiece. Hell, I'd date me if I could. Wait—I actually can. Perks of being a clone of that bitch."

The guy collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, his pants damp with the evidence of his terror. I gave him a disgusted look and ended his miserable night with a well-placed kick, sending him skidding across the pavement.

"Spineless coward bringing a group to handle a single woman? Even peed yourself, gross," I muttered.

As I walked away, I couldn't help musing out loud. "The nanobots dynamically adjust the fabric's structure to stiffen on impact, disperse heat, and even regulate body temperature. And my hands? Barely felt that bullet. It's like a second skin, engineered for total protection."

With that, I strolled off into the night, already thinking of ways to improve the tech. 

A few minutes later, as I walked beneath a flickering streetlight, the quiet around me seemed to shift. Instinct kicked in. I stopped abruptly, glancing over my shoulder, my voice low and calm.

"Something the matter?" I asked, addressing the shadow lingering just beyond the glow of the lamp.

The figure froze, trembling slightly. Whoever it was hadn't expected to be noticed—or called out.

After a moment, she peeked out cautiously from behind the streetlight, hesitated, and finally stepped into full view.

It was a young woman.

She looked like she was in her twenties, with blonde hair that fell loosely around her face and striking blue eyes that practically glowed under the neon hum of the streetlamp. Her features were delicate—high cheekbones, a soft nose, and pale skin that contrasted with the faint shadows of exhaustion etched across her face. Her figure was full and curvaceous, embodying a classic beauty that immediately caught my attention.

But it wasn't her looks that stood out the most.

I knew her.

She stood there, hesitant and nervous, her hands fidgeting at her sides. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her posture tense, and every movement betrayed the anxiety and fear practically radiating off her.

"Is something wrong?" I asked again, softening my tone and throwing in a disarming smile. "Is there anything I can help with?"

She opened her mouth, faltered, and dropped her gaze to the pavement. "I…" she started, but whatever she wanted to say got tangled up in hesitation.

"It's okay," I said gently, trying to coax her out of whatever had her so spooked. "Take your time. Why don't we start with your name?"

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "My name is… you can call me Karen."

Karen.

The name hit me like a jolt. I hadn't been mistaken.

"Nice to meet you, Karen," I said, keeping my tone easy and casual, though my mind was racing. "I'm Sarah. Are you in trouble? You look like you've had a rough night."

Her body tensed at the question, and she shook her head quickly. "No… thank you. I… I can't say," she stammered, her voice trembling like a glass ready to shatter.

I took a step toward her, slow and careful. "It's okay," I said, my voice soft. "You don't have to tell me everything. But if there's—"

Before I could finish, she flinched, turned on her heel, and bolted.

I didn't chase her. I just stood there, watching her retreating figure disappear into the shadows of Hell's Kitchen, silently muttering a name in my mind.

Karen Page…

...

General (POV)

Karen's legs didn't stop until she reached her apartment building, her breaths sharp and ragged as she collapsed against the door. Her chest heaved, and her heart pounded like it was trying to break free. It wasn't just exhaustion—she felt like she'd been running for her life.

For weeks now, she had been gripped by a gnawing anxiety that had burrowed into every corner of her mind. The feeling that she was being watched, followed, hunted—it wasn't a fleeting fear or some baseless paranoia. It was real, grounded in events she couldn't ignore.

It had all started with that phone call.

That day had been like any other at the office—long, uneventful, routine. She had been passing her boss's office, report in hand, when she overheard his voice through the slightly ajar door.

At first, she hadn't paid much attention. But then certain words snagged her attention like barbed wire catching fabric. Terms like "discrepancy" and "cleanup." Words that didn't belong in a legitimate business conversation.

Her curiosity got the better of her. Over the next few days, she started piecing things together, combing through the company's financial records. What she found confirmed her worst fears. There were inconsistencies, large sums of money unaccounted for, and transactions that made no sense.

She had saved the evidence, too. Screenshots, copies of documents—everything that could tie the threads together.

But she wasn't as careful as she'd thought.

Her boss had confronted her a week later, his tone dangerously calm, his words too deliberate. She had lied, played dumb, and assured him she'd dropped the matter entirely.

And for a while, she had.

Karen locked the documents away, determined to put it all behind her. She wasn't a whistleblower or a hero. She just wanted to live her quiet, ordinary life without looking over her shoulder.

But her fear hadn't gone away. If anything, it had grown sharper, more suffocating. At work, she'd catch fleeting glances from her boss, his smile too tight. On her way home, she'd see shadows that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking. Even within the walls of her apartment, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching her.

Tonight, she had decided to face her fear. She stepped out into the streets, telling herself she needed to confirm if someone really was following her. It didn't take long before she saw a figure—a blur in the distance, disappearing around a corner.

Her courage faltered, and she found herself retreating to busier streets, her nerves too frayed to go back home.

She thought about going to the police. But how could she explain everything without laying it all bare? The evidence, the accusations against her boss—it would mean exposing herself completely.

And for what? She wasn't cut out for this. She wasn't some brave detective or a vigilante. She was just Karen, a woman trying to survive.

For hours, she wandered aimlessly, gripped by indecision and fear, until she witnessed the scene outside the bar.

Sarah.

The way she had dispatched those men with ease, standing calm and confident amid the chaos—it was like something out of a movie. Karen had felt an almost magnetic pull, an irrational hope blooming in her chest.

Maybe she can help me.

The thought was wild, and desperate, but it stuck. Sarah was like a beacon of strength, and Karen felt like a shipwrecked survivor spotting a rescue flare.

She had followed her, at a distance, too afraid to speak. She rehearsed the words in her head: My boss wants to kill me. Can you protect me?

But every time she tried to form the sentence, doubt crushed her resolve.

Who would believe her?

Why would someone like Sarah help her?

And what if Sarah wasn't as good as she seemed? What if Karen was walking from one danger into another?

When Sarah finally turned and spoke, Karen had frozen. Her feet had refused to move, and her voice had caught in her throat.

The moment she saw Sarah's face—beautiful, younger than her own—Karen's doubts roared back to life. She felt foolish, ridiculous. What was she doing, looking to a stranger for protection?

Shaking her head, she turned and ran, leaving her fleeting hope behind.

By the time she reached her apartment, she was spent. She fumbled with her keys, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut. As she slid down to the floor, Karen hugged her knees to her chest, gasping for air.

Her mind replayed the events of the night—the whispers, the shadows, the terrifying possibility that she might already be too late.

And yet, a single thought lingered in her mind, like a stubborn ember refusing to go out.

Sarah… maybe she's the only one who can help.

...

Karen sat on the floor by her apartment door, hugging her knees tightly, her breath still uneven. She tried to calm herself, whispering softly as though the words alone could make everything better.

It's okay, Karen. Tomorrow, you'll go and tell your boss the truth. Everything will be fine. Everything will—

Her self-reassurance froze mid-thought when a faint metallic clink echoed from the hallway.

Karen's heart stopped.

She knew that sound too well. It was the small, loose piece of metal that had been sitting in the hallway for weeks. The kind of thing you only noticed if you lived there—or if you were unfamiliar and careless enough to bump into it.

Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling a gasp as fear took over.

Someone's coming!

It wasn't a neighbor. It wasn't a friend. No one from the building would make that mistake.

Her instincts screamed at her to stay quiet as she pressed her ear to the ground, praying it was just some harmless animal.

Then came the footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Methodical.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each step reverberated in her chest like the tolling of a death knell.

Tears welled in Karen's eyes as she bit down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Her mind raced with a single, deafening thought:

Is someone here to kill me?

The footsteps stopped right in front of her door.

Karen's breath hitched. She forced herself up onto her knees and leaned toward the peephole, heart pounding in her ears.

The hallway beyond was bathed in dim, flickering orange light. It was empty.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven gasps as a fragile sense of relief began to creep in. Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe—

A face suddenly filled the peephole.

Karen recoiled with a stifled scream, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

The lock rattled.

She stared in frozen terror as the door slowly creaked open, her instincts screaming at her to run.

"No!" she shrieked, scrambling to her feet and dashing toward the living room.

But the man was faster.

He lunged, slamming her onto the floor with a brutal efficiency that knocked the wind out of her. A gloved hand covered her mouth as he shoved a cloth between her teeth to muffle her screams.

His knee pressed down hard on her back, pinning her in place as he grabbed both of her flailing wrists with one hand. His other hand reached to his waist, producing a silenced pistol.

Karen froze as the cold barrel pressed against the back of her head.

Tears streamed down her face. Her muffled cries were barely audible as her mind spiraled into hopelessness.

This is it. It's over. I shouldn't have investigated. I shouldn't have gotten involved. Why didn't I trust Sarah?

Regret after regret flooded her mind, but the weight of the man's grip and the cold steel against her skull left no room for hope.

She shut her eyes tightly, bracing for the end.

But it didn't come.

Instead, the man's grip loosened. The pressure on her back vanished.

Karen gasped for air, her eyes snapping open as confusion and fear overwhelmed her senses. She struggled to focus through the haze of tears and saw a figure standing over her.

"Sarah?" she whispered hoarsely, barely believing what she saw.

The woman crouched beside her, offering a hand. Her face was calm but resolute, her presence radiating a strange, steady reassurance.

"Hey," Sarah said softly, her voice steady and warm. "It's okay. You're safe now."

Karen blinked, her mind reeling. For a moment, she couldn't speak.

Sarah stood, glancing at the unconscious man sprawled on the floor, his silenced pistol lying several feet away. She kicked it aside, her movements deliberate.

"Guess I showed up just in time," Sarah added, looking down at Karen with a faint, crooked smile.