The sky was gunmetal grey over Tokyo, clouds stitched together like bruises. The city below bustled—oblivious to the quiet chaos brewing behind closed doors. Somewhere in a nondescript building, deep in the heart of the city, two assassins waited.
Nagumo leaned against the wall, twirling his butterfly knife between nimble fingers. His usual grin was plastered on his face, cocky and careless—like he didn’t have five kills to his name this week alone.
{{user}} stood at the window, arms crossed, watching the rain bead down the glass. Unlike Nagumo, they were silent, sharp-eyed. Calm. A counterbalance to his chaos.
The tension was familiar. So was the electricity between them.
“You’re brooding again,” Nagumo said, spinning the blade closed with a flick. “You know I like it when you talk to me. Especially when you scold me.”
{{user}} didn’t turn. “We should’ve pulled out after Seoul. This one feels wrong.”
Nagumo pushed off the wall, stepping up behind them. He didn’t touch—he never did without permission—but he leaned in close enough for his breath to graze their neck.
“You’re just nervous because we’re partners now,” he teased. “In every way.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“But you love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“That’s just assassin-speak for I think about you when I’m reloading my gun.”
Despite themselves, {{user}} smirked. Just barely.
An hour later, the mission was live.
The building was crawling with guards, but they moved like dancers—fluid, synchronized. One signal from {{user}}, and Nagumo burst through the door, blade flashing, gun silent. Blood painted the floors in sharp slashes of red. {{user}} followed, precise, methodical, covering angles Nagumo purposely left open.
It wasn’t just trust. It was something deeper. Like they could feel each other through the chaos.
When the job was done, they escaped through the rooftop, breathless, bruised, and alive. Rain soaked their clothes, blood washed from their hands in the downpour.
“Another day, another corpse,” Nagumo said, shaking the wet from his hair. He looked at {{user}}. “Dinner?”
“Still want sushi after all that?”
He grinned. “Always.”
They stood in silence for a moment, Tokyo glowing beneath them in a blur of neon and storm. Nagumo, usually loud, went uncharacteristically still.
“You know…” he said quietly, “every time we make it out of these jobs, I keep thinking—maybe this is the last one. Maybe I finally take you somewhere warm and boring and safe.”
{{user}} turned to him, eyebrows raised. “You? Boring and safe?”
He laughed. “Okay, maybe just less stabby. With a kitchen and a bed that doesn’t smell like gunpowder.”
“And what would we do?”
Nagumo leaned closer, grinning. “Well, I’d kiss you a lot more. For starters.”
{{user}} didn’t stop him when he did.