Blade and Bullets (BokuAka)

One

Is this right? Death?

In certain ways, people would consider death beautiful, welcoming it with open arms and celebrating a well‑lived life. Finally being able to forget the embarrassment of your past and move on to something better, something new. Rumored to be a carefree paradise – a place where you could finally let go.

It almost seemed like a perfect dream; so peaceful you never wanted to wake up, and you never did. Isn't that something to be grateful for? A surreal ending next to the person you wasted your life away with.

But this was not a beautiful ending. There was nothing beautiful about it.

Loosening his grip on the young boy's raven hair, he let the lifeless body collapse to the discolored oak floor almost as if it were rehearsed. The light in his dark brown eyes had already gone out. Akaashi didn't need to look directly – he'd seen it too many times before.

The knife in his hand, once stainless, gleamed with red. The angle from behind hadn't spared him from blood staining his own skin. Kneeling beside the corpse, he drew the blade a final time. The tip of the blade scratched across the boy's thumb, leaving a thin cut in its wake. His mark. A silent signature, nothing more. Burgundy liquid seeped into the fabric of his gloves as he wiped the blade clean before returning it to its sheath. He never took a second look at the body.

He was used to the guilt. It had stalked him once, long ago. Whispering through sleepless nights, curdling every meal, dragging him six feet under with the weight of graves. But years in this business had hollowed him out. Now, despite the fresh blood on his hands, there was no ache in his chest, no sickness in his head. Now there was only habit.

Half‑lidded eyes swept the dim street, searching for witnesses. The glow of the streetlamps blurred bins and shadows into one. No movement. No eyes. Deciding the coast was clear, Akaashi slipped away from the alley. His long strides carried him to the black Mercedes parked under cover of night. He peeled off the gloves clinging to his skin, careful to leave no prints as he opened the door.

Black tinted windows swallowed his identity as he drove away. Cold, metallic eyes fixed on the road, one hand steady on the wheel as the other brushed the screen of the dash, answering the phone without pause.

"Target eliminated," Akaashi said flatly.

"Didn't expect anything less from our Keiji~," a man purred back. "So tell me the story, princess. Any surprises? Plot twists? Witnesses?" The grin was audible in his voice, sadistic amusement curling around every word.

Akaashi exhaled slowly, the sound heavy over the line. "You'll get the details in the report."

A pout echoed through the speaker. "Tch. You never let me have fun." Then the line clicked dead, leaving Akaashi alone with the hum of music through the car speakers. Lyrics blurred together, just noise to drown the mind. The instruments mattered more – low strings painting a calm ocean that broke suddenly into crashing waves. For a moment he pictured himself adrift there, letting the tide carry him, neither resisting nor surrendering. But the thought dissolved, and he drove on, silent.

Pulling into the base, the crunch of gravel under tires broke the quiet. The agency building appeared plain, unremarkable from the outside. Akaashi's sharp eyes caught another black car across the lot – unfamiliar plate, unfamiliar polish. He logged it to memory before heading for the entrance.

Tsukishima sat at the front desk, short blonde hair shadowing sharp eyes. A tattoo of Roman numerals inked his skin above the brow, a piercing glinting in the other. He glanced up just long enough to give a curt nod, unimpressed. Akaashi pressed the button for the underground level, nose twitching at the metallic tang of blood in the air. Old, familiar. He ignored it.