1 The Scarlet Serpent

Not a soul is perfectly innocent. In their own way, they can do no wrong, but in the eyes of those who have been betrayed, somewhere under the thick skin of the brightest of angels resides a being who finds themselves in the very hands of Satan, a cruel reminder of the hatred they have bestowed upon those who never would have hurt them or upon those who sliced their heart into pieces with a knife sharper than a bullet's touch. But reveling in the hottest depths of hell are those who deserved to be killed at my blood stained hands, those who defy the laws of humanity's final predicament.

I have devoured hundreds out of my own burning desire to break those who broke the already destroyed. If one has dug out the guts inside of them to rip a person apart until only a small portion of their halo remains, they are that of a monster with a future bound to come crashing down upon them surrounded with the hottest and most excruciating of infernos sparked by those they only made stronger. In the cruelest parts of reality, some demons have something well deserved chasing after the sliver of sympathy still leftover. The one who will murder whatever is left of them with a smirk and eyes sparkling with vengeance, the one smothered in the scarlet blood of heartless savages to prove a point that demons will never rule the world. I embrace the murderous moniker of the Scarlet Serpent. A harbinger of dread, a killer, a formidable adversary, a minacious woman.

Some may bestow upon me the title of the Scarlet Serpent, the mistress of demise, yet I embrace the designation of Camila Vega, the final visage a heartless man shall encounter, the final name that a dirty woman shall wail, pleading to be spared, but beneath the guise of New York's beloved murderer, fate has been sealed, and I shall delightfully revel in the blood that I regurgitated. I am a killer, and while in most circumstances, it's not a source of pride to take the life of another, although amidst that truth, I have carved a reality for myself safeguarding the defenseless against the shadowy underbelly of our existence.

Upon my desk there lay a rigid navy blue folder, each torn up, burned, coffee stained page filled with names of the souls that were extinguished at my hands, countless names written in my blood that seeps through the pages. There are 702 names counted, approximately 118 victims undocumented. I find pleasure in taking the lives of monsters who feel sympathy for no one but themselves, but to my unfortunate understanding, nobody seems to agree with the life I've come to cherish. In public, it's an immediate loss if my face is discovered. My visage is clearly revealed on billboards, walls, on posters shredded by the sole brethren who accept my lifestyle, on social media posts for distant eyes to witness, transcending the boundaries of New York.

I was 19 seven horrifying years ago, but what's so relevant about seven years ago today on October 30th, both of my parents were brutally, bloodily murdered by a violent man in a dragon mask that I liked to consider the "demon of all demons." Quite simply, the devil himself. For the last torturous seven years, on another note, no one has caught the man under the mask. Not the police, not my master, Kojima Ryuu, and I'm no exception. It didn't matter how much of my life I sacrificed to catch my most formidable rival that I didn't know the name of. This killer was too shrewd for me. He knew exactly what he was doing when he killed my parents to ensure that he could never be caught or punished. With each elimination, I administer a vital inquiry, poised on the precipice of their demise. "Who killed Edwin and Rose Vega?"

Every poor soul I've eliminated, though, either has nothing to say or won't reveal the man's identity in their grave. 820 people have been tortured, questioned, and killed, and nothing has come out of it in my favor. Countless times I have tried, and countless times I have failed, but nothing will break my respect for my parents, nothing and no one will get in my way of carrying on their legacy of being unyielding.

Shuddering the very foundation of my bedroom, the door splintered open, leaving an indelible mark on the wall. Unfazed, I kept my gaze low. I fluttered my eyes, silently conveying a message that imposed that someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed while strictly cataloging the recent casualties. Three oppressors of a teenage boy. Roman O'Quinn, the puppeteer, his name immortalized in crimson ink derived from his lifeless body. Zack Hampton, and then there was Damian Whittaker, a poor soul who beseeched to be saved.

"So, you finally decide to show up, huh? Vanished for a whole damn week and now you waltz in here like it's no big deal?" A low, guttural growl escaped my lips. The enigmatic figure, Mr . Ryuu, my master, vanished into thin air for an entire week, leaving no trail, no communication. He had an uncanny knack for getting under my skin. Yet, I didn't dare to defy him, else the shackles of my persona would be unshackled. "If you don't have another sorry sap for me to take care of, then save your breath and get lost."

"You better tread carefully with your words, girl. Consider yourself damn lucky we get along. Forget about it. I got something for you; a new target. But let me warn you, this one's different. A damn powerful mafia boss by the name of Angelo Russo. That bastard is surrounded by an army, and he's got the respect of everyone in his damn empire. If you so much as breathe in his direction, you've got twenty of his men breathing down your neck. Listen up, Vega, I know you're tough, and I know you're quick, but mark my words, Russo is a whole new level of twisted."

Mr. Ryuu had the audacity to caution me, as if he hadn't witnessed the extent of my abilities, as if he remained oblivious to the very meaning behind the Scarlet Serpent. It was laughable. Not for me, of course, but for him.

"You reckon you're up to the challenge?"

He attempted to intimidate me with his hiss, a feeble attempt to assert dominance. But I brushed him away without a sliver of interest, pushing his face away from my ear as if he were a pest as my hand slashed across the page with intensity, etching Damian's name into my folder.

"I'm always up to the challenge, sir. However, let me make it abundantly clear that you better keep your face at a safe distance from mine as long as you want to keep it. Now, setting that matter aside, if you possess Russo's file, hand it over, and feel free to vanish once again while I handle him, and there's no need to be concerned. I am more than capable of eliminating twenty of his lackeys."

"I was just getting started here, so hold off on kicking me out for now," he persisted with his rambling, and while I couldn't care less, I begrudgingly rolled my eyes but maintained some attention. And for the record, he was my damn master, so I didn't really have a choice. "Vega, forget about his lackeys; they're weaker than snakes tied to damn poles. The real threat is Angelo himself. The guy has years upon years of training under his belt. He's a master in hand-to-hand combat, a lethal assassin, and, of course, a top-tier mafia boss. He's a force to be reckoned with. The bastard always has a trick up his sleeve, and he can leap from one building to another without even letting out a grunt when he lands. He's worked himself to the bone."

Once again, my eyes rolled in exasperation, while my mind pleaded for me to block him out. However, I knew better than to cover my ears, as a swift slap across the face would be my reward. Sure, I could handle it, but it would only cost me, eroding the trust I had longed to gain. I possessed the same skills and abilities as Russo, if not more, but I kept that information tightly sealed. Bringing it up would only serve to irritate Mr. Ryuu, and I had no desire to invite his annoyance upon me.

"He has broken his hands to perfect his fighting technique, spraining his ankles to enhance his speed and agility. Look, I ain't trying to piss you off with this warning, but I'm dead serious. This guy's strength is on par with yours."

"What's next? Is he capable of contorting his body so damn tightly that he can slither under a tree branch barely hanging a foot above the ground? Give me a break."

"Well, that's just the damn problem, Vega. Because, believe it or not, he can actually squeeze himself under a tree branch. And here's the kicker: someone has actually witnessed him pull off that damn stunt. No way over it, no way around it. That son of a bitch went right under it, like it was a damn walk in the park."

"Alright, sir, I'm all ears, and spare me the small talk. What else do you have tucked up your sleeves regarding this Angelo Russo guy? Why should I feel the urge to wet my pants in fear at the mere sight of him?"

"Vega, that's not what I'm trying to convey here." I really wish he'd stop calling me Vega. "I'm not suggesting that you should wet yourself at the mere sight of him, because even a tantrum throwing toddler wouldn't stoop that low. But don't mistake that for him being a pushover. I've already given you the basics. He's strong, fast, agile, and cunning, and his cronies will protect him with their lives. However, there are two more things you need to know. Firstly, he's got a whole damn army of enemies, and some of them wouldn't hesitate to take you out just to get a shot at him. So, it's not just Angelo you need to worry about; you've got to keep an eye out for them too. And lastly, this one isn't a direct concern, per se, but let's just say he's got a way with seduction."

"Seduction? Give me a break. You must be joking. I bet he's as repulsive as a mutated skunk. If that's his idea of a defense mechanism, it's downright pathetic. Fine, sir, I'll take care of him since you seem to think he's such a big deal. But do us both a favor and stay the hell out of my personal space before I lose another brain cell."

In a fit of frustration, he forcefully stomped and slammed the already battered door, causing the ground to tremble beneath me. I defiantly extended my middle finger just as the door sealed our encounter. As the gesture receded back to my side, I shook my head with a dismissive eye roll, settling back into my seat. An insatiable curiosity churned within me, fueling an array of questions about Angelo Russo. How truly formidable is he? Was he as repulsive as a mutated skunk, or was he the opposite? To what extent had his seductive tactics proven successful? And, perhaps, most importantly, was he worthy of my time?