꧁༒☬𝓑𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓒𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓜𝓸𝓸𝓷𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽: 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓱𝓮☬༒꧂

꧁༒☬𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓾𝓮☬༒꧂

The cool blue moonlight bleeds through the translucent curtains of the study in the Rosemund Estate. Dust flies into the air, and a young woman's ears ring with the remnants of Edward Rosemund's final cries. She would have shivered in this cold winter, but his blood splattered on her cheek warms her face as she exhales in relief. The breath forms a wispy cloud, dissipating into the night, just as Edward's last breath. The scroll in her hand, instructing her to kill the man on the floor, a silver stake sticking out from his chest. None of it phases her anymore. She pulls it out, and the disgusting sound of flesh and blood squelching permeates across the room, and places the blade in his hand, curling his cold fingers to make it look like he was holding it. Then, blue eyes with little to no life in them look at the scroll, throwing it into the fireplace.

And just like that, the murder of Viscount Edward Rosemund is written off as nothing more than a man who could no longer bear the weight of his debt...

The cobblestone alleyway of the Amaryllis District feels rough against her boots, but the contract killer's grimace is hidden by the fancy hat on her head, the bottom fanning out to shield her face, tilted down to the wet rocks on the ground. Her heart only now begins to pound painfully, the effects of the adrenaline that aids her in hiding evidence now hinders her ability to stay calm as her breathing accelerates. The petrichor aroma washes out the scent of blood, the sky dark grey, just a few shades lighter than her empty eyes. When she finds her little corner in the alleyway, a little cut out from a dilapidated and derelict building eerily close to the red light district, she leans against the granite wall and waits for her payment to arrive.

Usually, this particular customer of hers is very careful. Faithful to her services almost every month since the past year, they send different servants at seven in the evening to deliver either payment right after her job, or a request, as it were. Each and every letter stamped with vermillion wax, the seal engraved with a hyacinth on its expensive, ivory surface. However, when the young lady sees the figure walking up to her, the air compresses down onto her and she feels smothered by this almost frightening demeanour. Her heartbeat, that had only just calmed, begins to rapidly flutter again, the blood rushes to her head and she knows that this person is not just a servant just by the way they carry themselves. The hooded figure's lace covered hands grasp an envelope, and tilts their head slightly to reveal a crimson painted grin. The contract killer shakes their hand, smooth and feminine, and lets out a shaky exhale, and hopes that she can mask it with the pretence of being cold. When they peel back their hood, it reveals a beautiful, elegant woman. Her hair is the hue of dusk, pitch black but shining like stars. Her long eyelashes thickened with mascara reveal bluebell eyes that seem too alive to be true. Pink dusts this woman's cheeks, but something tells Arielle that it isn't the near subzero temperatures that warms her face, but the frenzied heat of bloodlust. Although this isn't shocking in itself, what takes her aback is that this woman looks just like her, bar the beauty spot on the mysterious figure's chin.

"Greetings, Miss. Here is your payment." Her sweet, high voice chimes, black lace gloves pressing a thick envelope into the contract killer's leather gloved hands, "And here is a..." The woman taps the edge of the letter to her lips, smearing rouge in the corner of it, "A very special request. Effective immediately, if you accept."

The way the mysterious woman speaks makes the contract killer compare their conduct, and she comes to the conclusion that they are starkly different. Her own attitude is rough, aloof. It is obvious that she is someone not to be messed with if provoked. But this masked woman with baby blue eyes doesn't seem dubious at all. If anything, she looks sweet and innocent. However, just the way she sashays down the road, as if she is in a grandiose ballroom and not an uneven pavement, and there is something about her that seems... unsettlingly sinister. As if she were a snake lying in wait to pounce. Her expression is angelically conniving, doe eyes wide but crimson painted lips pulled up to a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes.