How much was enough to kill a man?
A hundred dollars? Three hundred? Five hundred?
Hopefully, it wasn't much more than that.
After years of petty saving, you had a little over eight hundred in the box tucked away in your dresser. There was still the money Connie owed you from selling off pineapple hunks before your world flipped upside down, but then you would have to explain to him why you needed the cash so urgently. Such a detour would only serve as an additional complication to your already shoddy plan.
Was eight hundred enough? Would it cost more?
Mr. Ackerman should have included the Ripper's price in his secret letter. For such a competent man, he loved leaving out critical information. The lack of knowledge made your mind wander through more distasteful possibilities about why the cost remained buried underground.
What if the Ripper didn't ask for payments in cash? What if he wanted something more precious? Something that couldn't be replaced? Was that why Mr. Ackerman forced you to dress as a man? To hide your most precious asset as a young woman?
You snuck downstairs to steal some liquor before heading outside. For courage, you reasoned while filling an empty whiskey flask. If the Ripper asked for payment in more explicit terms, you wanted to be prepared and impaired. It felt wrong to consider gambling such purities away, but idealism would act as collateral to win the picturesque future of your dream.
You internally recited Mr. Ackerman's instructions as you fled outside under a starry canopy: Leave only after midnight. Put on the suit, hide your hair from view, and cover your right eye with the patch so no one can recognize you. Walk a mile past the north-most street that exits town and follow the trail marked by a deer skull and an ax in a wood stump into the forest. When you reach a fork in the path, go left and follow it until you reach a cabin. Knock three times, pause, then twice more.
You followed each line to the pencil stroke, barring from one: Mr. Ackerman wrote to walk. A trusty steed to need to carry you there, and you knew just the one.
It had been so many days since you spent time with your sweet Lady and Carrot. When you saw the ladies in the barn, they whinnied and swung their tails with excitement the further they forced their noses from their stalls to take in your smell.
"Hello, sweet ones. I missed you," you whispered as you greeted them each with a soft kiss on the snout.
But you wouldn't ride either of the girls; people in town might recognize them. Your intended steed was in the deepest stall, lingering in the far corner, almost as though he aimed to hide from you.
"Come, Voltaire," you ordered.
But he wouldn't budge.
Stepping inside the pen, you crept up to meet the stallion. His body language grew tenser with each motion. You shushed him, raising a soft hand to pet his stiff, obsidian coat. It didn't take long for the giant to melt into your touch.
"That's my sweet boy," you whispered several times as you brushed him and prepared his saddle to escape. Without wasting too much of the night, you leaped atop your horse and worked him up to a healthy cantor.
The path was uncommonly quiet. Even the mosquitos cleared the skies, but Voltaire's sighs kept you company on the ride into town. But you felt as though you were being watched.
Peaking over your shoulder, you half expected to see Jean tailing behind as you reached the north-most exit from town. His proclivity for following when you desired solitude had become a constant convention in your relationship. You swore you could smell him in the wind or hear his melodious voice sing through leaves, but you kept moving once you accepted that no one was nearby. He did not appear each time you heard a twig snap under Voltaire's hooves, a bush rustle in the breeze, or a whisper carried in the wind.
Jean's disappearance was almost as surprising as how calm you were. Nervousness did not weigh you down as it did when you first departed. In fact, sitting on Voltaire in men's clothes was the most sane you had felt in years.
After what must have been a mile, you found that deer skull and ax. Darkness swallowed every inch of the path. You remained unafraid. As instructed, you reached that fork in the course and led your steed left. The trail was narrow and made more of mud than dirt, but it eventually led to a moss-covered shack in the middle of nowhere, only illuminated by a single candle in the window.
A heavy aura pressed down your shoulders, but no darkness or evil came with the force. You slid off Voltaire's back and tied him to a thin tree on the edge of what you assumed was the Ripper's meager property. Distant leaves ruffled either from the wind or larger animals skirting through the bramble. Somehow, you knew any terrifying creatures would leave your borrowed friend alone.
"I'll be back soon, my knight," you assured your horse, giving him a final tender thumbing. The stallion whinnied, begging you to stay with him in the void. He is strong, you reasoned. Such a horse would be alright without you for an hour or so.
You turned back to the shack and gave the old cabin a once over. The wood was so dark that the exterior almost appeared burnt. The nails holding the construction together were already well-rusted into crusted dots. All but one dirty window was boarded with chewed-up planks, and the splintered roof bowed in the center, ready to collapse at any moment. Cigar smoke, burnt leather, and decomposition stunk up the entire front porch if you could even call the tiny slab of wood waiting before the door that.
How someone could live so far from civilization, all in their lonesome in such a ruinous place, honestly concerned you, but not to the point of fear. Humans are naturally social creatures, and never once had you seen the Ripper in town. You only knew stories from Mr. Ackerman and Connie, and neither had particularly good things to say about your potential business associate.
The Ripper must be so lonely.
Knock three times, pause, then twice more, the wind whispered, and you prepared your knuckles.
No. You needed to drink before you followed the next direction.
Unscrewing the flask, you drained the liquor until your stomach burned. Sealing it up again, you shoved it back into your pocket and knuckled the door.
You waited; silence followed.
You knocked again–three times, paused, and twice more—and were met with more silence. On the third and final try, you heard a groan, clinking bottles, and heavy footsteps. Straightening your neck, you stood tall in your oversized suit.
The door opened, and a man towered so tall that his forehead barely cleared the door frame. On one hip, a pistol rested in a dark leather sheath; on the other, a knife similarly waited. His clothes were wrinkled and stained, his hair was slicked back in its own grease, and what you assumed were years of haunting experiences aged cold, gray eyes. Those sunken irises traced your figure briefly. Mild confusion tugged on his cheeks.
"Who the hell're you supposed to be?" You answered by pulling a few bills from your pocket. "Ah, so it's work, then? Should've just said so, boy. Get in here, already."
The Ripper stepped aside, welcoming you into his cabin. Finding a place at an unleveled table in a squeaking chair, you glanced around the single room. All sorts of dead things covered his walls: deer skulls, squirrel tails, fox pelts. Each one acted as a mark of Death, proving that the monster that now sat before you had a talent for murder. Your gaze shifted lower to the two open cabinets that waited under the boarded windows. Every inch was busied with some sort of weapon: a knife, a bow, a revolver, a rifle, and the ammunition to use them all.
You saw a bed across the room, too—no bed frame, no blankets. Only one thin, stained sheet and a pillow so flat that any plushness it once had probably disappeared over a decade ago.
You scrutinized trophies and messes while the Ripper stared at you. His eyes only left you to pull a cigar from a tin and light it in his candle.
"You don't talk much. Do you, boy?" He took a long breath of his cigar and exhaled a thick, foggy into the already musty air. "And you don't know the first thing about manners either? Comin' into another man's house without introducing yourself, shaking hands, or taking off your hat."
You extended your hand across the table. The Ripper took it with a crooked smile, but his lips faltered when he felt your hand. He turned your hand over to show off your nails. You stole back your hand instantly.
"You got soft hands... And shiny nails?" His voice diminished to a slight mumble, "Boys sure are getting stranger by the year, aren't they?" But the strength returned. "Alright, take off that hat and the eyepatch, and give me a name."
For the first time, your fingers trembled. In seconds, the Ripper would see you as a woman; no camouflage would cover that truth. Your arm lifted slowly to pull the patch to your temple, then moved on to tip off your hat. Cooler air kissed your hidden scalp with icy dread.
"I'm–" you started to speak, but laughter cut you off.
"You've gotta be kidding me! A girl?!" The Ripper laughed in your face. "How old are you, Princess? Ten? Eleven? I don't take payment in ribbons, and I'm not gonna kill some kid for stealin' your sweet roll. Come back when you're old enough to swim without mommy and daddy watching."
"I'm not a little girl," you forced out.
"Just because you bleed between the legs don't make you a woman. I mean, look at you! You ain't got so much as a gray hair to prove your age! I've seen scat in the woods older than you!" The Ripper's eyes squinted the longer he studied you. "But... Something about you... You look... familiar... Who's your mama, girlie?"
"You wouldn't know her," you told him, not in the mood for games. "She pass–"
"No, I think I do know her. There used to be a witchy girl in town that you remind me of... And her nickname was... Katie? Kathy? No... No... Was it... Kitty?" You tried not to react, but the sudden tightening of your lips gave away the truth. "No... Don't tell me... You're her kid?" He hunched over the table to study your face. "I see it now. You've got bits of her. Shame what happened to her. Such a... bold lady. How long has it been? Ten? Twelve years?"
"Nineteen."
Another long drag of his cigar followed. "Nineteen years? So, maybe you are a woman. Must be hard: pretty, little thing like you growing up with no mama. No daddy, either, from what I remember. Some tough luck you've got, that's for sure."
Your patience for the topic of parents wore thin. You said, "I don't have time for your games. Will you listen, or should I take my business elsewhere?"
A whistle sailed through the Ripper's cracked lips. "There she is! Old Kitty's back from the grave! You're like her twin the way you try to strong-arm men, 'cept her voice was much easier on the ears than your raspy wheeze. The vice grip she held on your dear-old-dead-daddy was something to marvel at, I tell you. She told him to jump, and he'd burn his hand tryin' to reach the sun. Lucky bastard your daddy was. Didn't even know how good he had it. Knew once she left, though. If you want my opinion, I'd give the world to have her back and show her one last good time."
The Ripper smirked viciously. He wanted a reaction. He tested your limits to see your seriousness. He wanted you to walk out, but you wouldn't fall for such an easy trap.
You placed your fingers on your throat to control your speech from being broken by coughs. "Do you have more material, or can we begin?"
The Ripper leaned back into his seat. "I'm just trying to get to know you a little, sweetie. You might not be a boy, but I'll give you one thing: you got balls comin' here. But, if you wanna talk business, let's talk. Who you want dead?"
The answer came easy. "Richard Gross. He used to be a sergeant for the Union. Ring a bell?"
"I know that one. What could that little meatball do to a girl like you to make you want him dead?" the Ripper asked.
You just pulled down the neckline of your suit to reveal the fading but still disgusting bruises that splattered over your skin. The Ripper grimaced as he sucked air in through his teeth and pushed it back out through pursed lips a second after. His eyes turned hard as stone the longer he studied your markings.
"Did he hurt you anywhere else I should know about? More information helps me provide a more personal experience for my clients."
"No, sir."
"Sir? I haven't been called 'sir' since..." The Ripper's eyes went soft briefly before returning to grey ice. "So, what you want me to do to him? Strangle him like he did you? Or I could slit his throat if you're lookin' for somethin' less personal. That's my usual way, so I can promise it'll be clean. I could pierce him through the stomach a few times and wait till he bleeds out somewhere quiet. That's if you want him to suffer. Not my favorite. Messy work. Smell's a lot worse, too."
"I want..." your raspy voice couldn't finish the thought.
You did want the Sergeant to suffer. You wanted him to feel all the pain you felt when you saw discolored, tender flesh in the mirror. You wanted him to be pushed into a corner, trapped under someone's thumbs, gasping for air until black dots crept into his vision. You wanted him to lose his hopes and dreams like he stole yours.
No matter how badly you wanted to say, 'Do all three,' the words wouldn't come. You didn't have the strength to order a man's death.
But if you left that table, you risked another woman's life.
She may not possess your same muscles and would die by the Sergeant's hands. She could be one of the women who scowled at you in Zeke's shop or at Hitch's party, or she could be Hitch herself. She could be one of the girls spreading rumors about your relationship with Eren, or she could be Sunny. No matter who it was, you wouldn't sleep at night knowing another woman could be face-down, lifeless, and bloody in an alley.
Because of your weakness, someone would bury a sister, a wife, or a daughter, and you would live forever knowing that you could have done something to prevent that outcome.
There would be no life after that. Every day for you would be hell on earth. So, you wouldn't order Death around. You would become the Agent of Death instead.
You said, "I don't want you to kill him."
"What? Sweetie, you do realize you've come to a–"
"You'll help me kill him for myself. I want you to teach me and oversee the affair if something goes wrong. Can you do that?"
The Ripper roared with laughter. "You must have me confused with another businessman, little lady. Little Levi does the teaching. I do cold-blooded murder. See my nephew if you want a lesson. Otherwise, I got nothin' to offer ya."
You yanked all your money from your pocket, and the older man's eyes widened the more you spread the moneyed fan onto the table.
"It's time to expand your business opportunities, Mr. Ackerman."
The Ripper hummed. His twisted mouth broke into a genuine smile. "Look at you. Comin' to play like a big cat. You know what? Maybe we can work something out just because I miss good old Kitty. How's that sound, Princess?"
"Sounds good... Kenny."
"Kenny," he repeated, blowing a smoke cloud from his nose. He swiped a quarter of the stack, leaving you with more money than expected. "I know you've got the money, but I never take payments all in cash. Everyone's always got something else worth bartering."
"What do you want?"
"Well..." Kenny's eyes trailed from your eyes down your torso and up again to your eyes. "You are a woman, aren't ya?"
Your mouth went dry. All your confidence ran out of you. The alcohol had yet to take any actual effect, so if this conversation headed where you assumed, you would feel and remember every bit of what was to come.
"I am," you answered.
"And women got all sorts of fancy skills, don't they?"
You wanted to be sick.
The longer you stared at the Ripper's aged face, the harder you tried to convince yourself he looked like Jean. He had the same long hair, but the shade was darker than your beloved. Kenny was tall like Jean, but they filled their clothes differently. Jean's hands were rough, but the Ripper's were rougher. There were too many gray hairs, the smell was too different, and the clothes were too wrinkled.
But the worst was the eyes. There were no sweet honey hues–only ashy gray.
Everything about them was close and yet too different. No amount of liquor would disguise this man's features to be that of your love unless you drank yourself into an early grave.
But the cards had been dealt, and this was your hand. All you could do was hope the Ripper would be gentle and swift.
You finally said, "We do."
"Can you bake?" Kenny asked.
"What?" you asked back.
"Can you bake? I want a pie. The ones all the rich people eat at their fancy parties. Doesn't matter what fruit. Blueberry, strawberry, blackberry. Hell, I'll even take apple. But what I need is a pie."
"A pie?"
"Yes, a pie. You know what a pie is, don't ya? Or do I gotta talk to Levi about what lessons he should be teachin' little girls."
"I can make a pie."
"Good... Good... And I want it in... three days. Can you do that?"
"I can, sir."
"Good girl. That's what I like to hear. Now, let's go over this little plan of yours."
That was how you spent the rest of your night with Kenny Ackerman: sewing the seeds of murder while sharing a liquor flask.
You would meet him in these woods each night, just outside the Sergeant's property, to track your attacker's patterns and decide when and how to strike. Kenny would teach you how to use a knife and subdue a man without causing a stir. You would become a pupil to the other Ackerman in town, but your coursework was much grimmer than in your youth.
But for a man with such a nasty reputation preceding him, you enjoyed the newfound company of the eldest Ackerman. Kenny was not the severe, terrible creature you had envisioned. He was just another man with preferences for liquor and sweets. Although he was still a hitman, it forced you to reconsider your prejudices, as you would be joining him soon enough.
When it was finally time to leave, you felt calm. Maybe it was because you had a decent time once introductions ended, you were drunk, or you assumed death's price would be higher.
Ultimately, it was only a few hundred dollars and a pie. The price seemed low.
Kenny walked you out and even held the door for you to slip into the summer air. Nature's breath was much cleaner. Voltaire whinnied brightly from his tree, and you couldn't wait to pet his long hair and free him of his saddle at home. Then, you would crawl into bed with his owner and plant kisses on his skin until the sun came up.
God, it sounded glorious. With your freshly-budding sense of peace, your heart might blossom with dreams later that night. Wouldn't that be lovely?
Your new associate grabbed your shoulder and pulled your back into his chest. That momentary bliss wavered as the Ripper growled, "We aren't alone, kid. Somethin' moved out there."
"What?" You almost laughed at the paranoia that filled his voice.
"Don't move, alright? I won't hurt ya, but I need to borrow your head for a bit."
When you didn't react, Kenny clasped his hand over your lips. Cold metal ringed your temple, and through your eye's corner, you made out the moon's glimmer on a gun barrel.
The Ripper howled, "Alright! I saw someone moving out there, and I don't like unwelcome guests! I'ma start countin', and you better come out here with your hands up before I blow her head clean off, ya hear?!"
You breathed through your nose and closed your eyes. Whispers echoed from every direction, and whether it was another human, a chipmunk, or just the wind sailing through pine needles, you couldn't be sure.
You didn't understand what was happening, as you were too intoxicated to make sense of the situation. You had done everything right, and now you had a gun to your head.
Who could be out here? Nobody followed you. Then again, it was rather dark; had they slipped behind shadows each time you peeked over yourself?
You have come this far, and you will go further, another whisper filled your ears. It sounded like Mother.
"Five..." The Ripper began counting and paused only to click the gun's hammer. "Four–"
"Let go of her, you bastard!" a familiar voice screamed back. A shadow bolted from the darkness.
"Knew it," Kenny mumbled but quickly shoved you to the side once the shadow swiftly approached.
You tripped on your feet and slammed into the ground as men wrestled to the ground only inches away.
Your dearest friend, Eren, appeared under the moon's soft glow before you, groaning with half his face pressed into the dirt. The revolver was now jammed into his skull.
The Ripper spat the harder Eren struggled to break free, "Who are you, ya little fucker? Her loverboy? You the one dressing your special lady up in a suit? She can't be that special to you if you treat her so poorly. You come up to me like that, and I'll offer your lady a different kind of barrel to wrap her lips around at your funeral so she can forget you nice and easy. How's that sound?"
"Don't hurt him!" you yelled. "He's my frie–!" The coughs finally found your weakened voice. You hacked into your hand until your breath turned metallic.
The Ripper holstered his gun only to kick Eren straight in the ribs. The attack's force sent Eren rolling, reeling, and retching.
And it was all your fault. You did this to him by coming here, but how could you have known he would follow? He shouldn't have even known you had left the lake.
You searched helplessly in the woods for assistance and found another shadow emerging from the woods with its hands high. The closer it came, the more your self-hatred dissolved into pointed anger.
Because it was Jean. Just like you expected.
Jean told Eren about your mindless whispers regarding the Ripper. Jean's betrayal could have resulted in your best friend's demise. Jean nearly cost you everything you were fighting to make real.
Jean shook his head at you with a stony glare, prompting you to stay still. Where you were excited at the thought of seeing our lover only seconds ago, his intrusion in the woods for a second time twisted your vision from nothing but tones to pure red pigments.
"He's one of your friends?" Kenny asked you, and you nodded slowly. "Well, shit. Sorry 'bout that, kid. Didn't know. Serves him right for hiding, though. Real men don't hide. Only cowards and rats scurry like that."
You crawled to place a hand on Eren's heaving chest. He still struggled to catch his breath.
"Eren," you whimpered as tears slipped from his wincing eyes. "You're alright. I'm here."
"What about this one?" Kenny asked, and he repointed the pistol directly at Jean. "Want me to shoot him?"
"No," you clarified, rich with fury. "Not yet, anyway."
Authors Note: Hi! Sorry this took forever. I went out with my friends two weeks ago, made a lot of bad decisions, and lost my voice. I thought it was because I was screaming, but it turns out it was the early stages of RSV. Luckily, I didn't get any of my friends sick, but definitely be careful with your health, get your flu and covid shots if you can, and don't make out with strangers. They'll give you RSV, and it fucking sucks ass.
I also just gotta learn that it's okay for me to get sick, and I don't have to apologize lmao.
Oh! And thank you for 500 votes and 50 followers! I can't thank y'all enough for reading through all of this! It's a lot of writing to get through, and I'll def have to edit plenty of things once it's over, but it really means a lot!