The maintenance tunnel was collapsing.
Not slowly, not with warning—just the sudden, catastrophic failure of a structure that had been holding on by spite and inertia for decades. Support beams shrieked as metal twisted. Concrete dust filled the air in choking clouds. Somewhere above, something massive gave way with a sound like the earth splitting open.
Seraph—he'd started thinking of himself that way, though he didn't know why yet—crawled forward on hands and knees, vision swimming, lungs burning. The sedative still coursed through his veins like liquid lead, making his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Every few feet, he had to stop, forehead pressed against cold metal, just to remember how breathing worked.
Keep moving, Hashirama's voice commanded, steady even as the world came apart. Death comes for those who rest.
We're going to die down here, Peter's panic bled through. Buried alive in the dark—
"Shut up," Seraph gasped aloud. "Both of you. Just... shut up."
A section of ceiling collapsed behind him, close enough that debris pelted his legs. The tunnel ahead narrowed, forcing him to squeeze through gaps barely wider than his shoulders. His stolen uniform tore on jagged metal. Blood slicked his palms where rust cut deep.
Then he felt it: a whisper of air against his face. Cool. Fresh. Moving.
An exit.
He pushed toward it with renewed desperation, ignoring the screaming in his muscles, ignoring the way his vision kept tunneling to black at the edges. The maintenance shaft ended abruptly at a vertical climb—a ladder leading up into darkness, rungs slick with decades of condensation.
He didn't remember climbing. One moment he was at the bottom, the next he was slamming his shoulder against a rusted hatch, and then—
Air.
Real air. Night air. Cold enough to shock his lungs back into proper rhythm.
Seraph collapsed onto damp earth, gasping, shaking, still half-poisoned but alive. Above him, stars wheeled in a sky impossibly vast after hours in fluorescent-lit tombs. The sound of the forest surrounded him—wind through leaves, distant water, the chirp of insects that didn't care about human disasters.
Behind him, the ground shook.
He rolled onto his back just in time to see it: the facility's death throes. The earth simply settled, sinking inward as underground levels collapsed into each other like a house of cards in slow motion. Trees toppled at the crater's edge. A cloud of dust and smoke rose into the night sky, blotting out the stars.
No flames. No dramatic explosion. Just the quiet, inevitable victory of entropy over human ambition.
They're all dead, Peter's voice whispered, anguished. Everyone in there—
Everyone who chose to stay,Hashirama corrected. They had warning. They chose to contain you rather than evacuate.
Seraph said nothing. He just lay there, watching the smoke rise, feeling absolutely nothing.
That emptiness should have scared him. Instead, it felt like relief.
***
The sedative worked its way out of his system over the next hour. He spent that time hidden in the undergrowth, forcing himself to remain still and conscious while his enhanced metabolism broke down the chemicals. Hashirama's healing factor helped, burning through his chakra reserves but leaving him functional.
By the time he could stand without swaying, dawn was threatening the eastern horizon.
He needed to move. Needed distance between himself and the ruins before search teams arrived—and they would arrive. Facilities like that didn't just collapse without someone noticing.
But first: assessment.
Seraph stripped off the ruined guard uniform, letting the torn fabric fall to the forest floor. The name tag—CHEN, M.—stared up at him from the pile. He stared back for a moment, then deliberately stepped on it, grinding the metal into the mud.
Sorry, Chen. You drew the short straw.
Underneath, his body was a patchwork of half-healed injuries: electrical burns across his ribs, deep lacerations on his arms and legs, bruising that covered him like a second skin. But even as he watched, the worst of the damage was fading, skin knitting itself back together with the faint green glow of chakra-enhanced healing.
Impressive, Hashirama's presence noted with clinical interest. Your healing factor is stronger than mine was at this age. The genetic splicing was thorough.
At this age? Seraph thought. How old am I, anyway?
The question had no answer. His body looked maybe seventeen, eighteen—but he'd been grown in a tank, force-developed to maturity. Was he weeks old? Months? Did it matter?
He caught his reflection in a puddle of rainwater and froze.
The face staring back was a stranger's—sharp cheekbones, pale skin with an almost translucent quality, eyes that seemed to shift between brown and amber depending on the light. The features were a blend: Peter Parker's American bone structure softened with something more angular, more Eastern. Not quite either, not fully both.
Clone genetics, Peter's knowledge supplied. They probably tried to optimize the phenotype. Remove weaknesses, enhance strengths.
And his hair—
Seraph ran a hand through it, feeling the weight. Long, wild, tangled from the pod fluid and the crawl through the tunnels. But the color stopped him cold: a deep, striking red, like autumn leaves or fresh blood.
Hashirama's coloring, the First Hokage confirmed. My brothers and I all shared it.
Red hair. In New York City. In a world where being "different" got you noticed, questioned, potentially reported.
Need to fix that, Seraph thought. Later. First: inventory.
Chen's gear had survived the escape mostly intact: a tactical belt with pouches containing protein bars (stale but edible), a flashlight (broken), a multi-tool (useful), zip ties (very useful), and a half-empty pack of cigarettes (useless, but he pocketed them anyway—trade goods).
The guard's sidearm had been lost somewhere in the tunnels. Probably for the best. Guns drew attention, and he had better weapons growing under his skin.
What he needed now was distance, direction, and a plan.
Seraph closed his eyes, letting his enhanced senses expand. The forest around him was dense—old growth, probably some kind of state park or protected land. Water sounds came from the west: a stream or small river. And beneath everything, the faint electrical hum of civilization: power lines, probably a road.
North-northeast. Maybe two miles.
Move.
He walked through the forest like a ghost.
Not literally—the transformation jutsu was beyond him right now, his chakra reserves too depleted. But Peter's enhanced proprioception combined with Hashirama's nature affinity gave him an almost supernatural awareness of his environment. He could *feel* the forest: where branches would support weight, where roots created stable footing, where animals had made trails through the undergrowth.
The sun rose properly as he walked, painting the canopy in shades of gold and green. Birds began their morning songs. Somewhere nearby, a deer crashed through the brush, startled by his presence but not threatened enough to flee entirely.
Beautiful, Peter's voice murmured, touched with genuine wonder.
Tactical, Hashirama countered. Dense cover, multiple escape routes, good sightlines from elevated positions.
"Can't it be both?" Seraph said aloud, voice rough from disuse and chemicals.
Neither voice answered, but he felt their quiet agreement.
The stream revealed itself gradually: first the sound of running water growing louder, then the change in air quality—cooler, damper—and finally the sight of it through the trees. A clear, fast-moving tributary maybe fifteen feet across, shallow enough to see the rocky bottom.
Seraph knelt at the edge, cupped his hands, and drank deeply. The water was cold enough to make his teeth ache, tasting of minerals and clean earth. He drank until his stomach cramped, then splashed more over his face and neck, washing away layers of grime and dried blood.
When he opened his eyes, his reflection stared back from the calm water at the stream's edge.
And for the first time, he really looked.
The face wasn't Chen's anymore—hadn't been since the transformation had dropped. It wasn't Peter Parker's either, despite the genetic blueprint. And it wasn't Hashirama Senju's, though echoes of the First Hokage lived in the sharp angles and the red hair.
It was his. Whoever he was. Whatever he was becoming.
Subject-#SP07, his mind supplied automatically.
No.
The rejection was immediate, visceral. He wasn't a subject. Wasn't a number. Wasn't a failed experiment that somehow succeeded.
Peter Parker, Peter's voice offered quietly. You have my memories, my powers—
But not your life, Seraph interrupted. Not your choices. Not your guilt.
Hashirama Senju, the First Hokage suggested. You carry my strength, my legacy—
But not your village. Not your brothers. Not your dream.
So who was he?
The question hung in the air like smoke. Seraph stared at his reflection, watching the way morning light caught in his red hair, the way his eyes seemed to hold depths that shouldn't exist in someone who'd been conscious for less than a day.
I'm the one who survived, he thought finally. I'm the one who chose to kill rather than die. I'm the one who walked out of that tomb.
I'm the rebirth. The second chance. The angel that climbed out of hell.
The name crystallized with the weight of certainty:
"Seraph."
He spoke it aloud, testing it. Strong. Clean. Separate from both the lives he remembered but hadn't lived.
"Seraph Senju."
Keeping part of Hashirama's legacy felt right—acknowledgment of the power in his veins, the techniques that had saved his life. But the first name was his own. His choice. His identity.
Seraph Senju, Hashirama voice echoed, touched with something like approval . Wear it well.
Seraph stood, water dripping from his hair, and felt something settle in his chest. Not peace—he was too aware of the bodies he'd left behind for that. But clarity. Purpose.
He knew what he was now. The question was: what would he become?
***
The next hour was spent in methodical preparation.
First: destroy evidence. Seraph shredded Chen's uniform completely, using the multi-tool to cut the fabric into pieces small enough to scatter. The name tag went into the stream, weighted down with rocks. The guard's boots were waterlogged and falling apart anyway; he left them buried under a pile of stones.
That left him in the thin, generic clothing that had been under the uniform: a gray undershirt and dark pants, both ill-fitting and stained but functional.
Second: inventory and acquisition. The forest provided: strong vines for cordage, bark strips that could be woven into improvised rope, berries he recognized from Peter's memories as edible. He fashioned a rough sling from torn uniform fabric, packed it with his meager supplies.
Third: direction. He needed civilization—but not too much civilization. Not the city proper, not yet. Somewhere he could acquire better clothing, identification, money. Somewhere he could blend in long enough to plan his next move.
The power lines led him to a two-lane road that cut through the forest like a scar. No traffic at this hour—early enough that even commuters were still sleeping. Seraph crouched in the tree line, studying both directions.
North: the road curved away into more forest.
South: in the distance, maybe three miles, he could see the telltale glow of streetlights. A town. Small, judging by the size of the light bloom.
Perfect.
He started walking, keeping to the shoulder, ready to vanish into the trees at the first sound of an engine.
***
The town revealed itself gradually: first scattered houses set back from the road, then closer clusters, then actual streets with shops and a gas station and a diner that looked like it had been serving the same coffee since 1950.
A faded sign welcomed him: COLD SPRING, NY - POP. Since 1,983
Hudson Valley. Seraph pulled the geography from Peter's memories: about fifty miles north of New York City, quiet, scenic, the kind of place wealthy people came to escape the city on weekends.
The kind of place where a half-starved teenager with wild red hair and bloodstained clothes would be noticed immediately.
Need to fix that.
Seraph circled the town's edge, staying in the shadows as morning fully broke. He needed clothing first—something normal, forgettable. Then food. Then transportation.
The opportunity presented itself at a small strip mall on the town's outskirts: three stores and a laundromat sharing a parking lot, everything still closed, everything dark.
Perfect.
He approached from behind, following the loading dock to a rear entrance. The lock was old, simple. Seraph pressed his palm against the door frame, felt for the internal mechanism, and carefully grew a thin root through the gap. It took three tries to manipulate the deadbolt, but eventually—
Click.
The door swung open into darkness that smelled of detergent and fabric softener.
Laundromat. Even better.
The lost-and-found bin yielded treasure: jeans that almost fit, a black hoodie with a faded band logo, sneakers that were only slightly too large. Seraph changed quickly, stuffing his old clothes into the industrial dryer and setting it to high heat—destroying any trace evidence.
The duffel bag came from a shelf of items for sale: cheap, generic, the kind of thing a thousand people owned. He grabbed it without hesitation.
Now: money.
The mall's office was locked more seriously, but not seriously enough. Seraph used the same root-manipulation technique, taking his time, being careful. Inside: filing cabinets, a dusty computer, and—
A safe. Small, old, probably containing petty cash and deposit receipts.
Seraph knelt before it, placed both palms against the metal, and pushed.
Not with strength. With growth. Roots, finer than human hair, infiltrated the lock mechanism, feeling for tumblers, mapping the internal structure. It took ten minutes of patient work, but eventually he felt the alignment, the moment when everything clicked into place.
The safe opened.
Inside: $3,847 in mixed bills, some checks (useless), and a jewelry box containing what looked like someone's forgotten wedding ring.
Seraph took the cash, counted out $500, and left the rest. The ring he left untouched.
Not theft, he told himself. Survival.
Theft, Peter's voice corrected, but without the moral condemnation Seraph had expected. Just tired acknowledgment. But necessary theft.
He was learning.
***
The security guard found him three minutes later.
Seraph heard the footsteps, the jingle of keys, the muttered complaint about having to check the alarm (which he'd triggered after all). He could have hidden. Could have fled.
Instead, he met the man at the back door, holding up both hands in a gesture of peace.
The guard was old—sixties, at least—with a gut that suggested decades of vending machine dinners. His hand went to his hip, but his holster was empty.
No gun, Seraph noted. Just a radio and a flashlight.
"Kid?" The guard's voice was gruff but not unkind. "The hell are you doing here? This place is closed."
Seraph kept his face neutral, channeling Peter's awkward teenage energy. "Sorry. I... my phone died and I needed to charge it. I saw the laundromat was open—"
"It's not open."
"—I know. I realized that. I was just leaving." He gestured with the duffel bag, trying to look embarrassed rather than threatening.
The guard studied him: the too-long red hair, the ill-fitting clothes, the exhaustion that must have been written across his features. His expression shifted from suspicious to concerned.
"You in some kind of trouble, son?"
Yes, Seraph thought. More than you can imagine.
"No sir. Just... traveling. Trying to get to the city."
"Bit young to be traveling alone." The guard's hand moved away from his radio—a good sign. "You got family there?"
"Uncle," Seraph lied smoothly. "He's expecting me."
The guard didn't look convinced, but he also didn't look like he wanted to make this a whole thing. Probably got paid shit to watch an empty strip mall. Probably didn't care about one homeless-looking kid.
"Alright. Well. Get going, then. And—" He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "Here. Get yourself some breakfast. You look like you need it."
Seraph stared at the money, genuinely surprised.
He took it carefully. "Thank you."
"Yeah, well. Don't make me regret it." The guard stepped aside, gesturing toward the street. "Bus station's three blocks that way. Greyhound runs to the city every two hours."
Seraph nodded, shouldered the duffel bag, and walked away at a measured pace—not running, not fleeing, just a tired kid heading toward whatever came next.
He didn't look back.
But he did pocket the twenty, separate from his stolen cash.
Some things, he decided, were worth keeping.
End Chapter 4