blood money || YANDERE!Chuuya Nakahara

Two: The Past.

"—Hey, remember? The loser has to obey one order from the winner, like a dog."

The arcade is filled with children and teenagers alike, the noise of video games cataclysmic to your sensitive ears. You're half-willing to put your hands over your head and shield yourself from the barrage of noise that emanated from the damned machines. But you steel yourself with a breath, a short one, and continue to the source of the voice.

Boss said they'd be here.

"Now, what shall I have you do?" A teasing voice.

"I was so sure I could win, too!" An enraged voice.

"It's your ability that was your downfall; it's so strong that you never learn to be cunning or think tactically. Whether it's games or riddles."

"Riddles? I don't remember—"

"Dazai?" You cut into their conversation with a monotone voice, "What are you two doing?"

"Ah, hello (First name) (Last name)," Dazai greets you, all joy from his victory sapped out the moment he lay eyes on you. It was not that he disliked you nor liked you; it was more so you were such a replica of the Boss that it was bound to make anyone near you feel unhappy, scared, or apprehensive. Your eyes were an echo of Mori's: scheming. "Did Boss need something from me?"

"Who's this?" An orange-haired male asks, his head over the top of the arcade machine. His eyes are curious, scanning over your face, and he says, "Your girlfriend?"

"Shorty, are you dumb? No way I'm dating this robotic person." Dazai exclaims, and you sigh.

"No. Just an accomplice. Just here to tell you I'm off to another mission," You knock your fingers against his chest, "Knock on wood."

"You think my heart's made of wood?" He asks.

"It's certainly not ice."

"Why not?"

"Ice thaws."

"Permafrost, then." Dazai says. You frown.

"Doesn't roll off the tongue as well, does it? Permafros—"

"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" The orange-haired stranger cuts in again, "Is this how normal people talk? What the fuck?"

"Who is this, again?" You ask Dazai. He sighs, his shoulders dropping.

"Some shrimp that Boss made me work with. His name's...damn, I forgot already."

"It's Chuuya, Chuuya Nakahara, you suicidal brat." He snarls. You wave at him, "And I'm fifteen; I'm still growing!"

"I'm (First name) (last name). You must be new to the Port Mafia; I haven't seen you around."

His fists clench, "I'm not part of your shit organisation!"

"Oh," You blink, "Then...See you, I guess," You turn to Dazai, "Bye."

"Bye, (Last name). Good luck. You won't need it though."

"Yeah, thanks." You wave at Chuuya, "Bye."

This was a ritual you and Dazai had made: Whenever you were to be sent off to another contract killing, you would come visit him and knock on wood; it was a simple meeting, an agreement, just in case you wouldn't come back. It was not that Dazai had an attachment towards you, but more so found a good accomplice and acquaintance in you that was unheard of.

After all, you were Boss' right hand female.

You exit the arcade with a heavy sigh, feeling the pistol in your pocket before heading off to your location.

XX

"I was told you owe us money," You say, pointing the pistol to the forehead of a man, "Where is it?"

"I don't have it!" He cries out. His fear makes him talk, makes him sweat against the barrel of your pistol. You look down on him like God, with unforgiving eyes, unblinking and staring at him as if you were staring through him. There was utterly nothing but darkness in your eyes, a lack of salvation in the darkness, "I'll have it in a week, promise!"

"You said that a month ago." You cock your pistol, and before he even realises, you shoot him in the stomach, neck, and forehead in rapid succession: all of this happens in a second. Blood splatters on the floor as he slumps to the floor. You stare at the corpse bleeding out to death before you with emotionless eyes, sighing and swiping stray strands of hair out of your forehead. Clean as usual.

You leave the corpse out: it's summer, so decomposition should be fast. A warning sign. A signal: Don't fuck with the Port Mafia.

You're walking past that exact alleyway where you executed that man years ago when you were fifteen, your bag over your shoulder. You pause, look at the spot; there's something akin to regret blooming in your chest that becomes swiped away, like a pattern in snow, sand, and dust.

You had to do what you did to survive. Or else what else? Look the other way and face execution? There was no other way to look: at least this was what you told yourself to assuage the pain in you.

Ever since defecting, you've been a foreign immigrant in your own body. How human emotions worked, how you were supposed to behave around people, how your own body worked: you never even realised what the clitoris was until you were 19. That was the extent of your detachment from the world and into Mori's world—you were rendered completely inseparable from him.

You're met with the landlord at the front of your door, and he's wringing his hands in anxiety. You muster up a small smile at his presence.

"Hello," You say, "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to announce that your rent's to be increased," He says, unsurely. You quirk an eyebrow.

"What? But you increased it just last week?"

"I know, but...end's gotta meet for me too," He says, nervously. You notice beads of sweat trickling down his forehead as he's looking around unsurely. You blink.

"But that's not fair on me. I'm barely making enough as I am now."

"I'm sorry, but it's just a notice," He says, "If you d-don't pay, then it's eviction."

"What?" You nearly drop your bag, "How? What's wrong with you?"

"Listen, I can't explain," His voice drops and he suddenly looks very, very scared. As if something was controlling him from behind, "But this is all I can say: Run. Find somewhere else. Go low for a while."

You're rendered speechless as he scurries away, shaking his head and murmuring under his breath. You watch him go away before shakingly turning your key into your apartment flat keyhole.

The apartment is small; tiny, even. It is a studio apartment with the kitchen and the living room borderless, and the only privacy you would have was in the bathroom. There was no bedroom; you slept on the floor in a futon, and worked overtime in the library or on a tiny desk you pulled out from behind the TV, which had broken years ago. The walls were stained brown with age, and the floors creaked noisily with every step, as though complaining under the weight of your feet. There was nothing in the room that denoted an identity; only proof that someone was in fact, surviving here, but not necessarily living there.

You put your head in your hands and sigh noisily.