blood money || YANDERE!Chuuya Nakahara

Four: Chuuya Nakahara.

"Well, if it isn't Chuuya," You echo. You unknowingly clutch your bag closer to your body. The pinpricks in the back of your neck start digging into your skin.

The orange haired male has changed a lot since you've met him when you were fifteen; he'd outgrown his hair and now it rested over a broad shoulder, and his face had sharpened into that of a handsome man. The young male had a black choker around his slim neck, and a black bolo tie crossed over his chest with a silver buckle. An elegant suit, alongside a dark coat with light coloured lining. He donned a hat too—a legacy that you had started by executing Randou back when the investigation into Arahabaki was still in place.

You knew, of course, since you had been the one to have put a bullet into his head.

"It's been a while," Chuuya says. He stands up from the bench he was sitting on, putting his hat back on from where it covered his face, "You've been off the radar for two years alongside that idiot bastard Dazai, eh?"

"Yes and no," You say, "Separately. I work at a library, he works at the Agency."

"Armed Detective Agency, huh?" He murmurs to himself. The chain on his chain rattles as the metro train slashes through the air. Your hair sways in the sudden blast of wind, before it calms and lands back down. A shimmer of red that outlines Chuuya's body—had he been using his ability to ensure his hair wouldn't get mussed up by the train?

"I need to go," You say, as the announcer over the intercom states the door will be closing soon, "I've got work."

"Ditch that," He dismisses your work with a quick gesture of his gloved hand, "What's the point?"

"Well, what else to do?" You roll your eyes, "I have work to do."

"Come join me for a drink."

"A—What?" You have to do a double take, "A drink at 9 in the morning?"

"A little wine doesn't hurt anyone, idiot," He snaps, as if embarrassed by your response, "Catch up on things. You've been completely erased by the government. You work at a dingy library; it should be a privilege for you to get an invite from me."

"I really can't," You say, with a wan, drained out smile, "I wish I could, but rent has gone up and I have to work overtime."

"You know you could be living comfortably if you simply rejoined the Port Mafia again, right?" His voice drops. Secrecy. Your face drops naturally and a look of hatred overcomes your countenance: clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering hatred. Shades of black and grey. A fanged look on your face: reminiscent of your past self. A flash of your youth that blinds him for a second—makes him blink as if startled.

"Do not talk to me about what I was," You snarl, before it fades into a placid expression, "I'm done with what I did."

"Is princess still caught up in guilt for what she did?" He taunts, and your grip on your bag tightens so hard you could feel your nails dig into your palm, like teeth biting into a lip, "Ah, it's whatever. You should regard it as an honour. You kept the organisation steady; you moved perfectly all according to Boss."

"Don't talk to me," You say, with a tone of finality in your voice. You turn around and walk towards the open train doors, and don't look back at him.

XX

His words still echo in your head while you're mindlessly scanning returned books and onto a trolley.

It was true, though. You could live lavishly if you rejoined. If you gave up your dignity and humanity and joined and became the scalpel to Mori Ougai, the Port Mafia's leader. Boss. Head. The scalpel. It was a nickname they had given you while you had run your reign of terror in the organisation, notorious for being closely attached to Mori while being such a heartless killing machine that even your superiors would be wary around you. A hunting machine, only sharpened through violence.

A slaughterhouse had always been your home, and the cold and unforgiving touch of a pistol barrel became your upbringing. That was the unfortunate truth. You were too detached; you unsettled people with the way you talked, moved, killed, as if they were simply sitting ducks for you to execute. Chuuya would know: he had been with you while you were hunting, and watched with wonder as you eviscerated your victim with a jagged knife so that the body wouldn't bloat in decomposition. All with an unflinching, unblinking gaze of a zombie.

It has and had ruined you. You didn't know at that time, but the truth was, it was eating away at you, like a parasite to an unfortunate cricket, like cordyceps to an ant. You stood before your own throne of corpses, a totem of your doings, and realised the extent of the violence only after a torrent of blood washed you ashore, unaware you had been drowning all this time.

You lived lavishly at that time, under Mori's hand, but when you grew older, you ditched the money; threw it all away the moment you decided to defect from the Port Mafia, disgusted at what you had done to get all this wealth. Poor decision, perhaps, but nobility wise? Incredibly so.

Nobility be damned now though.

"Shit," You murmur under your breath when you get a papercut on your thumb. A small bead of blood forms on your thumb, and the noise you make when you suck it away resembles that of a kiss. You wipe the rest of it off on your clothes, "That hurts."

"Are you okay?" A stranger kindly asks. He brings a pile of books over to your counter, "I saw you getting cut."

Even now, kindness from random strangers seemed foreign to you, like sunlight gingerly approaching a window to rest against benign flesh. It felt horrifying, ugly, mad, full of sweat and regret to you, to be on the receiving end of kindness. It is monstrous to you: a shelter and a warning, like a colourful, friendly temari ball filled with poison.

"Yes, thank you," The words are unfamiliar to your mouth. Bitter, "Do you need help checking those books out? The self checkout machine is a bit dodgy."

"Yes, I noticed that," He apologetically says, watching you as you manually begin to scan the books and onto a different pile, "I'm sorry about this all."

"I'm more than happy to help as your librarian," You say, your lips curving into a smile. You're scanning the books and gently pat them on the front cover, "You're all set to go."

"Thank you," He says, "And take care of your thumb."

Kindness felt undeserving for someone like you.

"...I will."