A thunderous boom shattered the fragile dream of rest. Seraph jerked upright in the motel bed, heart pounding, every muscle coiled and braced for battle. He didn't think—he simply moved. In a blink, he was crouched by the bedside, eyes darting, the hardwired instincts of two warriors snapping him into a silent defensive stance. It could have been the lab, the massacre, Konoha under siege, or a monster tearing through Manhattan. He only knew to be ready.
But the room was still. The only enemy was the harsh daylight filtering through the grimy curtains and the raw edge of adrenaline ringing in his ears. Slowly, clarity returned.
He crept toward the window and, with practiced caution, eased the curtains open a sliver. In the sunlight, the city churned below—buses groaned, pedestrians roamed, somewhere a street vendor's cart belched steam. And rising above the hive of movement, a pillar of smoke curled from a distant building. Not an attack on him. Not today. Just another day in New York's heartbeat.
"What a way to wake up," he muttered, rolling his eyes as he closed the curtains. The city never really gave anyone a peaceful morning; he should've expected nothing less.
His body ached, so he worked out the kinks—rolling his neck, stretching limbs hardened by too much running, too many hard beds, not enough comfort. The normalness of his next moves—using the bathroom, brushing his teeth with a fading motel-branded toothbrush, stepping under lukewarm water—grounded him in something almost ordinary. He dressed in his new, unremarkable clothes. No costume. No mask. No blood.
He made his way to the manager's window, the bell above the desk jangling as he stepped into the cluttered office. The manager barely glanced up, bored, twirling a pencil behind one ear.
"I'm extending my stay," Seraph said, eyes steady, voice measured.
"How many nights?"
"Two. Maybe three."
Cash changed hands, a receipt slid across, and that was that. Hudson Valley, the facility's ghosts, even the memory of the morning's explosion—all faded behind the thick, humming presence of the city.
Outside, the air was warm and heavy with energy—gritty sidewalk chalk lingering from yesterday's rain, the tang of exhaust, the ever-present aroma of grilled meat and pepper from a nearby food cart. Seraph's stomach roared in answer, demanding more than the meager breakfasts of his past.
He found a bustling diner, its neon sign buzzing softly under the rising sun. For the first time since his rebirth, he ordered a heavy, fulfilling meal: thick-cut bacon sizzling on the plate, golden scrambled eggs, crispy hash browns drenched in melted butter, fluffy buttermilk pancakes stacked high and drizzled with maple syrup, and a generous side of sausage patties.
Each bite was a revelation—a surge of strength flooding momentarily through his weary body, a reminder that survival required more than instinct; it demanded nourishment.
He ate eagerly, letting the flavors ground him in reality, while silently planning the day ahead. Tomorrow would be for plans—gathering reconnaissance, choosing identities, making moves. But today, he allowed himself a moment to simply exist: alive, unknown, hungry, and free.
As he leaned back, satiated and calm, the sounds of clinking dishes and quiet conversations filled the air—a stark contrast to the chaos he'd left behind. The city pulsed on outside, indifferent and alive. And so was he.
Seraph sat back in his chair, the last bite of buttery pancakes lingering on his tongue as a nearby television flickered with the daily news. The diner's small, wall-mounted screen played the morning's edition of the Daily Bugle, blasting the harsh voice of J. Jonah Jameson.
"Another explosion rocks a downtown building today," Jameson snarled live, his face a familiar whirlwind of fury. "A villain attack? Or just a robbery gone horribly wrong? Either way, it's clear that Spider-Man is a menace to this city, endangering innocent lives every step he takes! We need answers—and we need to hold this menace accountable!"
Seraph's eyes narrowed as the grainy footage rolled on: smoke billowing up into an angry sky, images eerily reminiscent of the explosion he'd awakened to that morning. He turned his head away, tightening his jaw. The words hit close, but old memories and new realities dulled the sting. He wasn't interested in the city's noise or its blame games—not yet.
As the din of the diner hummed around him, his mind shifted from the secondhand chaos on the screen to planning his own future.
First, he needed an identity. An official one. A legal citizen, something to protect him from the grinding gears of bureaucracy and law enforcement. With Spider-Man's memories flooding him, he already knew where to look, and more importantly, whom. The star child of Marvel fame—and its favorite punching bag—had tangled with agency contacts, hackers, and frontmen. All valuable connections now embedded in Seraph's mind. He just had to find them.
Second, shelter. No cheap motels forever; he needed a place to call home, at least temporary. Again, Peter's tangled financial troubles and associates gave him clues—old friends, scattered safe houses, even a few unlikely allies who cared enough to offer a bed without questions.
Third—and most importantly—he had to understand the full extent of his powers. He knew the basics well enough. Superhuman strength, lightning-fast agility, stamina that refused fatigue, the uncanny "spider-sense" warning him of unseen danger—a gift that had saved his life repeatedly during the facility massacre.
But those were only Spider-Man's gifts.
Within him pulsed something darker, profounder: the DNA and memories of Hashirama Senju, the god of shinobi. Seraph had used chakra, twisted it into jutsu, wielded wood style to grow and smash during his escape. But the wood style he wielded now was crude at best—a cheap copy, a spark struggling to ignite in unfamiliar soil.
Could he grow beyond it? Break past the shadows of legends?
In this universe, where world-ending threats were routine news and cosmic collisions marked Tuesday, the possibilities — and the stakes — were unimaginably high.
Finishing the last of his coffee, Seraph retrieved his cash and slipped it onto the table. The waitress, a woman in her mid-thirties with a quick smile and a sharp eye, approached.
"You look like you just rolled in from a biker gang," she teased gently, gesturing at his wild, waist-length red hair, his pale skin that seemed untouched by sun, and his clothes—a mix of rugged leather and worn fabrics.
Seraph smiled faintly, an echo of something more human flickering within. "Something like that," he murmured.
She nodded knowingly, then turned to tally his bill. As she walked away, Seraph felt a quiet resolve settle deep inside him. The path ahead was uncertain, dangerous—but for the first time in what felt like forever, it was his to choose.
He stood, shoulders straight, and stepped out into the brightening world, ready to claim his place—not as a shadow of his past, but as Seraph Senju, a force reborn in fire and shadow.
As the sun climbed higher, casting sharp noon shadows over the city's restless streets, Seraph stepped out of the diner and into the pulse of daily life. The noise enveloped him—honking cars, distant sirens, the murmur of hurried footsteps—and he moved fluidly through the pulse like a shadow adapting to light.
His bag was slung securely over one shoulder, the weight a reminder of his brief reprieve but also of the journey still ahead.
Then, without warning, a sudden cry pierced the ordinary clamor—a sharp, panicked gasp from across the street.
Instinct snapped Seraph into action. He surged forward, weaving through the crowd with supernatural grace, eyes locking on a young woman struggling to hold onto a falling purse as a reckless cyclist barreled past.
With a swift leap born from Peter's agility and honed by Hashirama's poise, Seraph intercepted the purse just as it slipped from her grasp. His fingers closed around the worn leather strap, steady and sure.
The woman turned, eyes wide with surprise. "Thank you! I didn't even see you there
"Liz?" he breathed, astonished