The cold was the kind that crept under skin and clung to bone. A moonless night loomed over the skeletal structure of the abandoned factory, the kind forgotten by time and cursed by the wind. Broken windows groaned. Rusted metal groaned louder. And then the lights flickered— once, twice— before darkness swallowed everything.
It was deliberate.
The thirty men inside stiffened, alert. A few cursed under their breath as they clutched pistols and knives, others tapped nervously on iron pipes and baseball bats. The factory's silence was suddenly sacred. Something had arrived… or rather, someone.
Seraphina crouched behind a giant cardboard crate, her breath slow, eyes gleaming like obsidian under faint slivers of moonlight peeking through the broken roof. Sixteen. Untrained. Alone.
And expected to kill thirty men.
All she had was a pocket knife, an untested will, and a fury burning deep in her blood.
There was no time for fear. She didn't even consider it.
She counted the shadows. Mapped the footsteps. Every blink was a calculation, every breath a decision. When one of the guards drifted too close— close enough to smell the cheap whiskey on his breath— she sprang like a panther.
Slash. His throat opened like a zipper. He gargled. She caught the body before it hit the floor. One down. Twenty-nine to go.
She didn't hesitate. She looted his handgun, still slick with the heat of his palm. It felt heavy, wrong in her hand, but there was no room for doubt now. She tucked the knife into her waistband and slithered into the dark.
Footsteps neared. She ducked.
"Did you hear that?" someone whispered.
Bang.
The whisperer dropped with a hole in his forehead.
Gunfire erupted. Sparks lit the air like fireflies as bullets tore through metal walls. They were shooting blind. And Seraphina— she moved like a ghost among shadows, slinking low, rolling between cover, the pistol now an extension of her arm.
She was grazed. Once in the leg. Then the shoulder. Hot pain licked her nerves, but she kept going.
When the bullets stopped, sticks and knives took their place. A man lunged from behind. She whirled, dodged, jabbed the pocket knife into his ribs, twisting until he dropped. Another swung a bat. She ducked, rolled, and emptied two bullets into his chest.
It became savage. Desperate. One man tried to grab her by the hair— bad move— she elbowed him in the throat, then drove the knife into his eye.
Blood soaked the concrete. Her own and theirs. She was trembling— but not from fear. From adrenaline.
Ten left.
Then six.
Then two.
One of them— hulking and furious— charged her like a bull. She let him come. At the last second, she sidestepped, kicked his knee sideways, heard the snap of bone, and fired the last bullet into his heart.
Silence.
She stood alone among the dead.
The box— the one she was sent to retrieve— lay untouched on a wooden table at the back. It glowed faintly under moonlight, an eerie contrast to the carnage around her.
Seraphina staggered forward, her boots sliding in blood. She dropped to her knees, clutching the box like a newborn. Her body screamed. Wounds burned. Her hands shook as she ripped the fabric from dead men's shirts, tying crude bandages around her thigh, shoulder, and arm.
Then she reached into her coat, pulled out a sleek black phone— the kind only the mafia elite used. She typed one word:
"Done."
She stared at the screen. Her vision blurred. Her breath caught. The box was still in her arms when she finally slumped sideways, bloodied, broken— but undefeated.
The factory held its breath.
And Seraphina lay unconscious in its silence… a storm in human skin… just beginning her rise.
Ash blanketed the sky like mourning silk.
Thirty minutes later, a convoy of black vehicles crawled toward the dead factory—silent, efficient, merciless. The cleanup crew, clad in black from boots to balaclavas, moved like shadows with a purpose. They stepped over bodies, counted bullet shells, dragged corpses into a pile like discarded trash. The scent of gasoline thickened the air. Moments later, fire danced from within the ruins.
The factory was erased in flame.
But not everything inside was meant to be forgotten.
From the far end of the bloodstained floor, one of the men gently lifted a bloodied, unconscious girl off the ground. Her arms were still curled tightly around a secured, locked box. She didn't let go even in unconsciousness.
"Careful," another man muttered. "She's the boss's new order."
They drove in silence, the hum of engines the only lullaby in the cold night.
…
The hideout was remote, nestled in the jagged cliffs beyond the city—a fortress in shadow. Inside, dim amber lights glowed against concrete walls and steel doors. Seraphina was placed on a wide bed draped in black sheets. Her wounds were raw, but her face remained eerily calm, like even in pain she refused to surrender.
The doctor arrived minutes later, muttering under his breath as he opened his kit. He cleaned the gunshot wounds, stitched them with precision, and bandaged her knife gashes. A shot of sedative. A list of pills. Then he left, leaving behind silence, and the soft ticking of a wall clock.
The door opened again.
Heavy boots echoed.
A man in a long black coat stepped into the room. The hem of it brushed his knees, sharp as the edges of a blade. His presence was commanding—lethal in its calm. His face was hidden in the shadow of the dim light, but his aura needed no introduction.
The Boss.
He walked to the bed and sat down beside her—slowly, carefully, like approaching something sacred. His gloved fingers reached out, brushing a lock of blood-matted hair from her bruised face.
"Stubborn," he murmured, a rare softness curling into the word.
As if summoned by cue, a subordinate entered with the locked box in hand. He knelt and extended it.
"Boss," he said, eyes wide with awe. "She did it."
The Boss took the box and unlatched it. He examined the contents— documents, a rare chip, a photo, a necklace— then closed it again.
His eyes, coal-black and unreadable, remained on Seraphina for a heartbeat longer.
"Train her well."
He stood and walked out, the echo of his steps trailing behind like thunder before a storm.
The room fell into a hush. The subordinates exchanged glances, lips twitching with curiosity and disbelief.
"She really did it…"
"And she's only sixteen…"
"No women ever entered our wing. Let alone like this."
"Did you hear what he said? 'Train her well.' Not 'kill her,' not 'discard her.' Train her."
"She's not just another recruit. She's the Boss's order now."
They didn't know whether to fear her, worship her, or stay the hell out of her way.
One thing was certain: This girl entered the hell on the earth.