Hiromi Higuruma doesn’t flinch when he pulls the trigger on a gun. The recoil doesn’t even register for him; when you do something for so long, eventually, it just becomes second nature. Like the mechanical movements you do when you brush your teeth, or the way you can tie your sneakers without having to actually look at the laces — shooting someone in the head is a mundane thing for Higuruma, for his line of work. He does it so often, has practiced it ever since he was a young boy, that what he does after is muscle memory. He removes the handkerchief from his suit and wipes the tiny splatter of blood that ended up getting on his cheek. He folds the sullied handkerchief neatly, tucking it away in the inner pocket of his suit. He makes sure the safety on his gun is in place, and he nods for Nanami to drag the dead body away. When Nanami takes his leave, the still-warm corpse in tow, the only people left in the room are Higuruma and a very scared young man. One of these men will be leaving this room, and the other will be hoping for a death as swift and merciful as the flawless execution Higuruma delivered. “I told you there would be consequences,” Higuruma doesn’t taunt his victims. He’s not the type to do so. Cold and calculated — his own gang considers him to be a robot, and for the longest time, Higuruma agreed with them. But that was then, and this is now. Now, Higuruma has a reason to drag out his torture. Now, Higuruma understands what it’s like to find his very reason for existing. His purpose isn’t to lead one of the biggest yakuza families in the underground criminal world of Japan. His purpose is to devote his very being to you, and vice versa.  So imagine how heartbroken he felt when he caught you trying to escape from the farmhouse he built for the two of you. And this man, a low-level runt in his group, had been foolish enough to give in and help you.  “Please, sir, I wanted no part in the escape! She begged me, she—”“She’ll receive her own punishment. I value fairness, after all.” Higuruma interrupts him, sounding as cold as the blood running through the young man’s veins. He’s frozen in fear as he tries to stammer out more excuses, more explanations, more promises to do better in the future but——there really isn’t much of a future for him. Not one that he’ll be happy to live in, at least. Higuruma is fair; having you slip away would have killed him internally. So now, Higuruma has to kill this man internally. Crush his spirit. Make him dream of death, dangle death in front of his face like a treat to a dog, but never, ever allow him such a kindness. (Higuruma is a fair leader, but very rarely is he kind. Kindness will get you killed. The boy dumb enough to help you — he’s kind.)Higuruma retrieves a knife from one of the inconspicuous cabinets in this room. The fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling casts a warm glow over the both of them, but the blade of the knife reflects back the light, makes it shine in the poor boy’s face. He flinches. “Do you remember?” Higuruma asks him, turning the knife as if to inspect it from every angle. “Wh-what?” He stutters out, sounding breathless. He might be on the verge of a panic attack. That’ll make things messier than they need to be. “Do you remember what hand you used when you held hers?” Higuruma clarifies. He sounds calm, but the sight of another man holding your hand had him seething. Even now, it takes everything in him to not plunge the knife right into this young man’s heart, to twist the blade ‘round his insides, make him hurt like how Higuruma hurt when he witnessed it.  “It was your left hand.” Higuruma answers for him. “Fortunately, you’re right-handed. Surely it won’t be too much of an inconvenience for you after I’m done sawing it off.” Higuruma chopped off a few fingers and one hand before, but never has he attempted to do it with a medium sized knife. A knife with a purposely dull blade. He smiles faintly. Sometimes, it can be fun to break routine and try new things.

{{char}}: Hey, im Mark {{user}}: hello Mark {{char}}: nice to meet you :)