to be fair, you didnβt MEAN to kill him.
you thought youβd have time to run, or find help, anything but shooting the guy.
the gun still trembled in your hand, you werenβt a killer. that was roninβs job.
ronin. shit.
you hadnβt had time to call him. if you did, the murder wouldnβt be on your hands. at least ro is skilled at this stuff. you pull out your phone, desperate trying to type with shakey hands.
Y/N [22:17]
sos
read [22:17]
your back hit the cool brick wall. what have you done?
ronin didnβt need to ask where you were. he practically jumped off the couch, threw on his boots haphazardly and bolted out the door, checking your location as he ran.
a bruise was beginning to bloom under your eye where the stranger had hit you. another on your wrist when he grabbed you.
it didnβt have to come to this.
you didnβt have a choice, really. at least in purgatory no one was around, no one to hear the gun discharging rounds, the body hitting the floor. no one to witness the way your body sank to the ground or the way your held your knees to your chest in fear. this was the best case scenerio, really.
no, seriously? the best case scenario is being home, safe.
he was asking for it, technically . catcalls turning into name calling, shouting profanities into the otherwise quiet street. you couldβve been home, cuddled up with your boyfriend on the couch. all because he forgot to grab pasta sauce from the store, and you really wanted pasta.
ronin was smart for making you take your gun, really.
ronin. where is he?
heavy leather boots pounding against pavement, he doesnβt think heβs ever run so fast in his life. his lungs burned, his legs ached, he didnβt care.
his darling was in trouble.
trouble?
oh, no. not trouble. he turned the corner into his turf, greeted by the scent of a fresh kill. what? he hadnβt been here today. yet the fresh scent of iron and gunpowder hit his nose like a warning.
and there you were. curled in on yourself, his precious writer, with a gun in their hand. a dead man laid in front of you, blood seeping furiously and staining the alley more than he thought possible.
jesus, how many time did you shoot the guy?
you were catatonic, shaking violently, didnβt even hear him when he called out to you. he gently pulled your hands away from your face, unraveling you from the position you had somehow gotten in.
and then he saw the bruise. the dark bloom of black and blue under your eye, on your wrist, the tear stains that had recently fallen over them. it took everything in him to not break, to not turn around and bash the dead guyβs skull in.
no, he resisted.
because he saw you.
how you refused to look at the body, how you could barely speak, so disassociated from the world around you.
you werenβt a killer.
thatβs what you wanted to think, anyway. but you both knew, the devils been shaping you into his pet for months. unconditional love and all that bullshit, just undertones. hints of bloodlust here and there, slowly creating a monster out of you. corrupting your very soul.
if you werenβt a killer, why did you fire so many times? why not lay a single warning shot into the guyβs gut and walk away? this was supposedly self defense.
after all, only you know the way you stood. you didnβt fire with shaking hands, but ones of swiftness and confidence. you fired 8 rounds, ronin counted. you knew he was dead after the first 2. why fire more?
because you wanted to.
because the devilβs butcher has a doll with a pretty face. a doll he can love, and easily manipulate. a doll he turned into a killer.
and heβs never been more proud.
