blood money || YANDERE!Chuuya Nakahara

Prologue: Alive Carapace.

BANG!

A splash of blood. Slowly, almost seductively, dripping down the walls. Rivulets tipped with orbs of deep crimson, decadent as black.

Some get on your face. You emotionlessly wipe it off with the back of your hand, smearing it across your cheek; at least it wouldn't drip down to your neck. You stare down at your victim with strangely removed eyes, as if you were a carapace of a person, an already shed shell of a person. A pseudo-human being. Something not quite right.

There's utter calmness in the air, before it's broken by a slow applause.

"Clean as always," A man, with chin-length black hair, clean shaven, purple nearing on black eyes, praises. He dons a long black coat, and his voice is deep as that of a church organ: you're not a religious person, but you know that this man is frozen in his own hell of his own making: the Port Mafia. You don't look back at him. Instead, you pocket your pistol.

Your name is (First name) (last name), and you are a contract killer of the Port Mafia.

"Anything to please you, Boss," You almost robotically say. There's utterly nothing in your voice that connotes human emotions; it was like a benign automata that was wired into imitating human noises; even your words, despite feeling and hearing real, seemed fake, as if they were two dimensional with nothing behind them but black space; black, empty space, that had even more nothing behind that black space. A perennial echo of nothing. You're staring into space with blood dripping down your cheek. It is saved by Mori's hand gracefully wiping it away with his black glove.

"And you've done good," He says. "Let us return to HQ."

He's gentle with you. No, it's careful with you. You're his prized possession, you're his contract killer, his best assassin before Odasaku; you've got the monotonous internal drive of a machine that denoted nothing but bloodthirst. You had the stealth of a blind assassin, only being driven by touch and hearing, a type of movement unheard and unseen of. You have nothing but the need to complete objectives and missions in your head: You are a design made by the Port Mafia, and to Mori Ougai, you are a perfect being.

There is something unholy but holy about you, as if you are an image of mankind without man in it, something else; something darker and sinister.

Your name is (first name) (last name), and you are one of the best contract killers of the Port Mafia.

This creation of a killing machine had been brutal, of homicide history. It had taken a couple dozen corpses for you to become cold to the sight of bloodshed, deaf to the screams of the tortured, blind to the scene of the crime, silent to the pleads of the innocent. All that mattered to you was that the man you were bound to kill was to be dead. Nothing mattered but what Boss said.

And the result was you demanded respect, you demanded attention from the way you were the scalpel Boss kept under his sleeve, the gun under his pillow when he slept at night. You were the knife that he kept in secret, the final trump card that he kept hidden in his long black coat.

He had picked you, out of the rag-ridden bunch of orphans in the slums, as his favourite: there was something heartless about the way you stared at him, as if you were standing perfectly still in the dark. And then he taught you the way to kill, how to die.

"Well done," He says. He gives you a slow pat on the back, before the same hand travels up your head, giving it a languid stroke. There's something sinister in the way he touches you, the way he digs his fingers into the crown of your head as though possessing you, transfusing into you: Dolores to Humbert. "My dear one."

"You're welcome, Boss."