Sera's POV
I lose the serial killer in the subway crowd.
One second he's right in front of me, his sins swirling around him like black smoke. The next second, he's gone—vanished between a tour group and a hot dog cart.
"No, no, no!" I push through people, searching desperately. Three dead women. He killed three women, and he's going to kill again. I saw it in the marks on his soul. I felt it.
Calm down, the voice says. You're not ready yet. You need practice first.
"Practice?" I'm standing in the middle of Times Square, talking to a voice in my head. People give me weird looks as they pass. "I just let a murderer escape!"
You'll find others. The city is full of them. But first, you need to understand your full abilities.
The voice is right, and I hate that it's right. I have powers, but I don't know how to use them properly. It's like being handed a sports car when you've only ridden a bicycle.
I spend the afternoon testing myself. I go to Central Park where nobody knows me. I find a secluded area near the lake and start experimenting.
Strength: I can lift a park bench with one hand. It should weigh at least two hundred pounds, but it feels like a bag of chips.
Speed: I sprint around the lake path. My phone's fitness app says I just ran three miles in eight minutes. Olympic athletes can't do that.
Intelligence: I pick up a discarded newspaper and read an article about quantum physics. I understand every word. Yesterday, I didn't even know what quantum meant.
But the scariest power is the one I can't control—the sin vision. I see a jogger pass by with small grey marks on her arms. She's lied to her husband about money. A businessman has darker marks—he's cheating on his taxes and his wife. A police officer has black stains on his hands that make me sick. He plants evidence on innocent people.
Everyone has marks. Everyone has sinned.
But not everyone deserves punishment, the voice clarifies. You'll learn to tell the difference. The truly evil ones—their marks are like yours at the law office. Dark. Thick. Impossible to miss.
"And what do I do when I find them?" I ask quietly.
Justice, Sera. You deliver justice.
That night, I do something crazy. I break into my old apartment building's storage room and find the boxes I left when I moved. Inside is my laptop from college. I power it up and start searching.
Tommy Chen's killers. Five gang members arrested. But the news says they might walk because witnesses are too scared to testify. The "Vipers" gang terrorizes everyone who speaks against them.
I dig deeper, hacking into police databases with skills I definitely didn't have yesterday. The voice guides me, showing me where to look, what to search for.
One name jumps out: Carlos "Venom" Martinez. The one with the spider web tattoo. The one who swung the bat that killed Tommy. He's out on bail, thanks to his gang's expensive lawyer.
And I have his address.
Now you're thinking clearly, the voice approves. Show him what happens to people who hurt innocents.
The warehouse is in the worst part of Brooklyn, surrounded by abandoned buildings and broken streetlights. Carlos is inside, I can feel it. The marks on his soul are so dark they're like a beacon calling to me.
I wait until midnight, then I move.
The door is locked, but I kick it open easily. The metal breaks like cardboard. Inside, Carlos is counting money at a table, his back to me. Probably drug money.
"Who the hell—" He spins around, reaching for a gun.
But I'm faster. I cross the room in a blur and grab his wrist, squeezing until I hear bones crack. The gun falls. Carlos screams.
"Remember Tommy Chen?" I ask. My voice sounds strange. Cold. Empty.
Carlos's eyes go wide with fear. "I don't know who—"
"The boy you murdered three days ago. The honor student who was just walking home."
"Look, lady, I don't know what you're talking about!" Sweat pours down Carlos's face. He tries to pull away, but I'm impossibly strong.
Then something inside me activates.
My eyes flash silver, and suddenly Carlos starts screaming for real. He's staring at something behind me, his face twisted in absolute terror.
"No! Get away from me! You're dead! You're supposed to be dead!"
I turn around, but there's nothing there. Just an empty warehouse.
He sees his victim, the voice explains. Your power manifests guilt as hallucinations. He's seeing Tommy's ghost.
Carlos falls to his knees, clawing at his eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please make it stop!"
Tommy's ghost—or whatever Carlos is seeing—must be terrifying. Carlos is sobbing now, a grown man reduced to a crying child. Part of me feels sick watching this.
But most of me feels... nothing.
That's the scary part. I should feel bad. I should feel guilty for torturing someone, even a murderer. But there's just emptiness where my conscience should be.
This is justice, the voice whispers. He deserves this. He deserves so much worse.
I leave Carlos screaming on the floor and use his own blood to write on the wall: "TOMMY CHEN - MURDERED BY CARLOS MARTINEZ - EVIDENCE IN LOCKBOX."
The lockbox has photos of the murder, Carlos's bragging texts to his gang, everything the police need for a conviction. I find it under his mattress and leave it in plain sight.
Then I call 911 from Carlos's own phone and walk out into the night.
By the time I get home, it's 3 AM. I should be exhausted. Instead, I feel energized. Alive. I just took down a murderer. I just got justice for Tommy.
So why do I feel so empty inside?
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes flash silver, then return to normal. My reflection smiles at me.
"Who am I becoming?" I whisper.
You're becoming what you need to be, the voice answers. A hunter. A judge. A—
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
"I know what you did tonight. I know what you are. We need to talk. - K"
My blood runs cold. Someone knows. Someone saw me.
Another text comes through immediately.
"Meet me at the corner of Fifth and Madison tomorrow at noon. Come alone. If you don't, I'll tell the police about the Pale Judge."
The Pale Judge? Is that what they're calling me?
A third text: "P.S. - I'm not human either. Neither are the things that are coming for you now. You just painted a target on your back, little hunter. Hope you're ready."
My hands shake as I read the messages again.
Not human either? Things coming for me?
I look up at my reflection. My eyes are fully silver now, glowing in the dark bathroom.
And for the first time since making the deal, I feel genuine fear.
Because if there are other things like me out there—what are they?
And why do they want to meet me?