The Dark Divide

Chapter 1: The Shadow Of Innocence

{Flashback}

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Years ago, when everything was different...

A little girl named Seraphina Vale was once the happiest child in her town. Her parents adored her, and she basked in their love and warmth. But beneath her innocence, Seraphina harbored a dangerous secret—she was an ability user, capable of absorbing life with a mere touch. Her parents knew the danger she posed to others, but they also knew the greater threat that loomed over her—an organization desperate to capture her for her rare and powerful gift. They protected her at all costs.

One sunny afternoon, Seraphina skipped toward her home, elated after scoring perfectly on her test. The joy in her heart was evident in her every step. She couldn’t wait to tell her parents. But as she approached the door, something felt wrong. The familiar scent of her mother's perfume was overwhelmed by the sharp, metallic smell of blood.

Her heartbeat quickened. She pushed the door open slowly, her pulse pounding in her ears. The sight that greeted her was nothing short of a nightmare.

In her parents' bedroom, chaos reigned. Her mother lay on the floor, her limbs brutally separated, and her father was sprawled across the bed, his body mutilated beyond recognition, his organs torn from their rightful places. The horror of it was too much for her fragile mind to comprehend, but the terror of what she saw was etched into her very soul.

Seraphina, still a child, was left to face this gruesome scene alone. The love and safety she had once known were ripped away in an instant, leaving her with only fear, confusion, and a deep, unshakable sorrow. Her parents, the only family she had ever known, were gone. The terror of that moment shaped everything that came after.

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The tragedy led Seraphina to an orphanage—a place that promised safety, but offered nothing but misery. The orphan keeper, a cruel and sadistic man, tormented her daily. Seraphina, though only a child, had already learned what it was to live in fear. She cried herself to sleep each night, wondering why no one would protect her now.

As she grew older, the weight of her suffering took a toll on her spirit. By the time she turned fourteen, the kindness that had once defined her was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow anger. Her ability—once a hidden curse—now seemed like the only way to survive in a world that had abandoned her.

One fateful night, Seraphina snapped. Her pain and rage boiled over, and she unleashed her ability. With a single touch, she drained the life from the cruel orphan keeper and the others who had tormented her. They fell lifeless to the floor, their bodies devoid of life, just as her parents had been. She walked away, silent and unfeeling, leaving their bodies behind, her heart now as cold as the world that had made her this way.

Seraphina escaped the orphanage that night, her innocence forever lost. She became a shadow—an unstoppable force that moved through the world with deadly precision. By the age of twenty-two, she was a legend. People whispered her name in fear, and those who crossed her path were never seen again. Wherever she went, a single note accompanied her murders, a chilling reminder of her presence.

The organization, the same one that had once sought her parents, now set its sights on Seraphina. Her rare ability was too valuable to ignore. But they were too late. The girl they had once wanted to control was now a woman they feared.

Seraphina Vale was no longer a helpless child. She was a cold, ruthless killer, and the world had no idea how to stop her.

{Present-day scene}

The scene is suffocatingly still, save for the ominous dripping sound of blood from the latest victim. The girl, now 22, stands alone in the center of a cold, dimly lit room, her expression blank as she surveys the carnage. Her figure looms over the blood-soaked body, her silhouette stark against the crimson mess that surrounds her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate—this is routine now.

The camera (or perspective) slowly zooms out, revealing the full extent of the chaos she’s left behind: scattered papers, shattered glass, and the broken remnants of what was once a life. Her calmness stands in sharp contrast to the violent scene, a visual representation of the numbness she’s grown to embody. In the dim light, her hands are still, as if untouched by the brutality of the act. She’s already moving on.

With a fluid motion, she leans down and retrieves the note she’s left with the victim, one of many. The cold, sterile words on the paper feel like an afterthought. She reads it with disinterest, almost as though she’s checking for something, her eyes narrowing slightly, betraying a flicker of calculation. The note serves its purpose—nothing more.

As the camera lingers on her face, it’s clear: she has become detached from everything, even herself. Her expression is devoid of emotion, her gaze distant, like a predator looking through the carcass of its prey. This is no longer personal. This is a game, a puzzle, a means to an end.

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(Meanwhile, The Detective’s Scene)

In stark contrast, the detective sits alone in his quiet, orderly room. The space is filled with scattered notes, photographs, and evidence, all meticulously arranged in a way that only he seems to understand. His hand hovers over a fresh note from the girl, tracing its surface with deliberate precision, as though each word, every detail, holds a meaning that he must unlock. His mind is working through the rhythm of the case, each piece fitting into a pattern only he can see.

His expression is one of intense focus—his eyes darting between the clues, his lips moving slightly as he mumbles observations under his breath. To anyone else, it might seem like he's talking to himself, but to him, it’s a way of organizing his thoughts. His fingers twitch every so often, a subtle sign of his internal processing.

A faint smirk crosses his face as he runs through the girl’s latest note. Her manipulation, her coldness—it’s almost like she’s playing a game, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he’s starting to enjoy it. His thoughts are linear, his observations sharp and exact. His autism doesn’t hinder him; it makes him more attuned to patterns and behaviors that others might overlook.

He finally pauses, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he processes the final detail. “Looks like this one's going to be fun,” he mutters, his voice soft but filled with a certain dark determination. The words are precise, the timing deliberate—no emotion, just a calm recognition that this challenge excites him in a way few things do.