Heaven's Crime (gxg) ✓

twelve. she saves me, i guess

               The moment I press the pen to the paper, sweat dampens my temple.

               Is a contract necessary? I had asked. When his eyes hardened, I immediately knew it was the wrong question to say.

              Now, the pen is unsteady in my trembling hand.

              All I have to do is write my name.

              That's it, Kaya. Write your name. That's all.

              The ink bleeds against the paper, and my fingertips smear the colour. The Yakuza boss is still watching with me, and I feel the predatory stare of his hitman—or assassin—or employee, lingering on the back of my neck.

              "We don't have all day," says a roughly accented voice.

              The Yakuza boss only smiles coldly, and fear tightens in my stomach.

              Just write your name, Kaya. 

             This time, there is no way out.

             Damn you, Veah, I think. This all started when I woke up on Halloween, handcuffed to her, and now . . . now, I'm signing away my life to go to Tokyo.

             I can't do this. I can't. The pen become shaky in my grip, the metal slick with my sweat, and I swallow again. The lights burn down on me.

            I am so, so sorry, Cassie.

           I write my name in black ink. 

           Signing the contract. Signing away myself, in a way.

           No matter what he said about keeping me alive, the sensation of a lie tugged in my gut. Making me think that, perhaps, he was not truthful.

           Once this is over, I will be easily discarded.

          The moment my pen leaves the paper, the ink still wet, gunshots shatter the glass of the plane windows.

           All of the Yakuza men are instantly on the floor.

           It is just me, standing in the ruin of broken glass and torn velvet. Miraculously unhurt. My stupid, stupid heart beating too fast.

            Tommy's voice echoes in my ears. Genius and idiot, two in one.

            I don't know why I'm still standing, but I can't make myself move.

           The door to the plane is thrown open, and the Yakuza are instantly on their feet. They aim their guns at the silhouetted figure, standing in the doorway, smoke twirling from the barrels of the pistols in both her hands.

            Veah. 

           Stunned, I can only stare as, one by one, each of the men launch themselves at her. Japanese war cries, and then—only cries of pain, as they fall at her feet.

           She is fast, too fast to possibly be real. Her movements are sharp and elegant and precise, hitting each man in exactly the place for them to collapse with their eyes rolled back.

           There are only seven men on the plane, but within minutes, five of their corpses are littered on the floor. 

          "Miss me?" she says, stepping over the body of the last man.