#sherrygin

“You shoot like a girl.” Gin sneers, back leaning against the wall and seemingly uninterested in providing any sort of constructive criticism.

“Oh, well. Gee.” Shiho rolls her eyes, voice deadpan. Lowering her pistol to point at the ground, she scowls at the silver haired man through her safety googles. “That’s maybe because I am a girl, thank you very much for noticing.”

“Tch,” The man mocks, lips twisted into a wolfish smile, “You’re pathetic. I’ve seen nine year olds with better aim than you.”

“That’s fascinating. Save me the details, though. Not in the mood for your bedtime stories.” The strawberry blonde retorts, heated at the man’s condescending attitude. “So, are you gonna teach me now or did you just come here to stare and make fun of me?”

He looks at her with what appears to be a mix of curiosity and disdain. Effectively enough, her words encourage him to approach her.

“I didn’t come here for fun, sweetheart. I was sent.” He pauses, a smug grin on his lips. Before she knows it, the man picks a lock of strawberry blonde hair between his fingers and lowers his face to almost touch hers. “Sorry to shatter your dreams.”

Alarmed at his sudden proximity, she smacks his hand away and staggers back. Her hair slips through his fingers like satin, a single strand left between his index and the palm of his hand, which he looks at with interest before clutching his fist tight

“Don’t touch me!” She shrieks, terrified and embarrassed. She wasn’t expecting that. The mockery and condescending, yes. Maybe a death threat or two. But having the organization’s top-rank assassin inch close to… flirt? With her? That, she terribly miscalculated.

Unfazed, the man lights up a new cigarette with the burning remains of his last. Her vision is suddenly clouded by the smoke, the smell making her slightly nauseous.

“That would be a problem,” Gin finally says, sucking a deep breath of smoke from the roll between his fingers. Pretentious bastard. He’s killing himself, and for what? Why would she care, anyway? Aggravated, she fans the air before her face to dissipate the mist. “If I was assigned to train you, but you won’t let me touch you. What am I supposed to do?”

She fails in finding any correlation of cause and effect. The man could do perfectly fine with a theory lesson, really. And she can practice herself. Now, to resort to some petty excuse so he can have a chance on physical contact, that is low. Even for Gin.

“Say, if I aim for your heart… "Calm and poised, the girl points the gun towards his chest, "You’d think my bullet could miss far enough to get inside your head?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even grimace or bat an eyelash. To her chagrin, the man leans over to her and, with a single hand, pulls the gun to press directly against the left upper side of his chest.

“I think the question here is, why would you aim for my heart?”

She feels her cheeks burn pink, for whatever reason she can’t be bothered to delve into. The man is infuriatingly difficult to even try to dialog with, let alone comprehend.

“My bad… I forgot you don’t have one. A heart, that is.”

“What if I do?” Suddenly, the tone of his voice is charged with so much intimacy she gets goosebumps all over her body. Seriously, who is this man? Lopsided smile, he challenges, “Don’t you want to find out? Go ahead, pull the trigger.”

She’s pissed. And horrified. Exasperated and through with his awful mind games.

“Weirdo.” She grumbles.

“Pussy.” He taunts back.

“Go to hell.”

And he loses it. She watches perplexed as the silver haired man splits his sides laughing with hysteria, as if she’d just made the joke of the century.

“We’re all going to hell, sweetheart, don’t you see?” He tells her between breaths, jeering with pure joy, “That’s what I’m here for. To assure we take down as many bastards with us as we possibly can.”

“I’m not like you!”

“Just because you don’t get blood spilled on your shirt doesn’t mean your hands ain’t dirty, babe.”

Her back stiffens. A feeling of sickness coils in her stomach, refusing to fade away. It’s the truth within his words, the unwelcoming sense of familiarity he projects on her… Everything is so wrong, yet why can’t she bring herself to argue with him?

Shiho’s lips purse with disgust. The grip on the handgun tightens. Oh, she feels so tempted.

“So don’t get yourself killed, sweetheart.” Gin smiles triumphantly, bringing her out of her reverie. He pivots his body to stand behind her, a tight grip over the hand she clutches the pistol with and his rough fingers circling around her wrist. Trapped in an almost-embrace, she can’t help a shiver.

Can’t fight back. Won’t fight back.

He levels her arms, bringing his cheek to press against hers. His breath smells like cigarettes when he whispers in her ear, “Save me the honor of killing you myself. It will be my pleasure, I can assure you that.”

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A gunshot echoes.

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