"People actually died in this house?" Natasha, still very much in her rookie phase, widened her eyes. She hadn't yet been granted clearance to access S.H.I.E.L.D. archives; all she knew was that a previous owner had committed suicide. Anything older than that was a complete blank.
"Maybe..." Bella replied vaguely.
She had seen the "one fat, one thin" female ghosts those idiots were talking about. Nothing memorable. They'd long since crossed over.
The three copycat idiots continued babbling smugly, completely unaware they were stepping into a bottomless pit.
The guy with rings in his ears and nose even swaggered to the fridge and pulled out three bottles of beer. Natasha's lips twitched—but she held herself back.
A few gulps of alcohol later, their arrogance inflated further.
"Flat-chested girl! You play the thin one! Change clothes—don't make me do it myself!"
"You short fatty, you too! Move, or you die!"
Bella: (Furious.)
Natasha: (Irritated.)
Flat-chested? Short fatty?
Congratulations. You have achieved peak suicidal behavior.
When the two girls didn't move, the trio lost patience. All three pulled out daggers; the leading woman even licked her lips.
The next instant—
A pitch-black gun barrel slammed against her forehead, the force knocking her back two full steps.
"You trash. You're begging to die," Bella said coldly, murderous intent pouring from her eyes. "I wanted to play with you a little first."
On the other side, Natasha was a fraction slower—but no less decisive. She kicked the second woman to the floor, then smashed her elbow into the ringed guy's face, dropping him flat. Before he could even groan, a Glock was pressed squarely against his forehead.
The so-called "Clamoring Trio" collapsed instantly.
Daggers suddenly looked very, very pathetic next to firearms.
"...I-is that... a fake gun?" the remaining woman stammered, terror freezing her brain. California gun laws—weren't those supposed to be strict?!
Didn't they say only two ordinary girls lived here?!
All three were forced into a trembling line, gun barrels gleaming inches from their faces.
They briefly considered resisting.
Then they remembered they liked breathing.
Bella frowned. "So... how do we deal with these three?"
Killing them outright? Salt, oil, fire, scatter the ashes?
Sending them to the police? Also messy.
Neither option felt quite right.
"You watch them," Natasha said calmly. "Leave this to me."
She slipped her hand into her shoulder bag. Five seconds later, she pulled out a silencer.
Bella froze.
The trio nearly wet themselves on the spot.
Natasha attached the silencer with smooth, practiced movements.
Bella stared. That was way too fluent.
Compared to her shock, the trio's reaction was pure existential terror.
What normal person carried a silencer in their bag?!
Regret slammed into them like a freight train. Of all the houses in Los Angeles—why this one?
The women's lips trembled uncontrollably. The "tough" ringed guy completely lost control; a dark stain spread across his pants.
"You're... you're not actually going to shoot us, right?" Bella whispered.
She knew agents couldn't be judged by simple morality—but she still didn't want someone close to her to get blood on their hands.
Natasha looked at her and smiled faintly, unreadable.
"Relax. I'm just scaring them."
The silenced gun tapped lightly against each forehead.
All three shut their eyes, bodies shaking so hard they could barely stand.
Then—click.
Natasha produced a syringe and jabbed each of them cleanly in the neck.
They collapsed instantly.
Even unconscious, fear was still etched on their faces.
"I'll have someone pick them up," Natasha said casually. "Don't worry. Go back to your room."
Bella guessed—correctly—that this meant S.H.I.E.L.D. cleanup. Staying around would only make things awkward.
Out of sight, out of mind.
She returned to her room and turned on the TV. Not long after, Natasha called out:
"They're gone. And remember—don't tell Charlie or Mom."
"Fine," Bella replied. Then, more seriously, "But be careful. Clever tricks don't solve everything."
"Got it, nag."
They didn't touch the console again that night. Instead, they agreed to go shopping the next day, then each returned to their rooms.
After a week in Los Angeles—and seeing that Natasha had adapted far too well—Bella finally felt at ease enough to leave.
She was heading to San Francisco.
College life awaited.
"Lock the doors. Check the windows. Turn off the gas. Watch out for—"
"That's enough!" Natasha shoved her toward the door. "I'm perfectly safe! Just go already!"
Bella scratched her head.
Honestly, she wasn't too worried. Natasha was smart, sharp, a crack shot, and trained daily. In a normal situation, taking on five or six people wouldn't even faze her.
Charlie and Samantha would be back from their honeymoon soon. Violet was still guarding the house. If something still went wrong, then frankly, no ordinary person would survive either.
After quietly reminding Violet again not to reveal herself, Bella hopped into her pickup and headed north toward Stanford University.
Stanford University.
Motto: The wind of freedom blows.
Freedom was great—when applied to learning.
Stanford had seven schools. Bella was enrolling in the School of Humanities and Sciences, one of the few that offered undergraduate through doctoral programs.
Medical, Law, Education, Business? Graduate-only.
Law school especially—no undergraduate law major in the U.S. If you wanted law, you needed another bachelor's degree first.
History, however?
Bella could study it all the way to a Ph.D. if she wanted.
Stanford ran on a quarter system. Bella was a Fall admit.
As for tuition—
Painful.
Over forty thousand dollars paid in one go made her heart bleed.
This was hard-earned money. Money she'd bled for. Money she'd earned fighting Death itself!
But—
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.
And everything can be paid in installments.
If everyone else took out loans, she'd do the same without shame.
Student ID issued. Registration completed. Freshman guide in hand.
Dormitories were available—but not cheap.
And dorm fees couldn't be loaned.
First come, first served.
Bella didn't hesitate.
Swipe.
Eight thousand dollars gone.
Nine months of housing secured.
Bella stared at the receipt, sighed deeply—
Then squared her shoulders.
"Alright," she muttered. "Let's see what Stanford has to offer."