Major Tags: violence, murder, gore Other Tags: death, dismemberment Word Count: 600
yikes
***
He's been tracking this mark for weeks: learning his schedule, visiting his usual hangouts, even talking to some of his acquaintances. Hanamiya doesn't miss a single step, doesn't err in his preparations or in his execution (hah!), doesn't falter when he thinks anyone might be on his tail. They never are, even when they think otherwise; he isn't on the Most Wanted list for nothing. Hanamiya Makoto of Tokyo Spider fame doesn't make mistakes.
Except, maybe, just this once, in his choice of a mark.
Or what's left of the mark, so to speak.
Sato Haruto, fifty-five, a CEO with no immediate family in the city, is currently the comfort and warmth of his own bed, sleeping like a baby—is the story his face would tell. The rest of him say otherwise.
He's cut open from throat to abdomen like a frog in the midst of dissection, lying peacefully on sheets that used to be white, but were now a deep rust brown. (Like salt in the wound, the blood had already dried—Hanamiya didn't even come close to coming here first.)
But where Hanamiya would characteristically stop—the flaying's always the best part—his predecessor took it a step further. Upon closer inspection, Sato-san seems to be missing all his major organs.
Motherfucker.
-
This time, Hanamiya takes every precaution, doesn't miss a single detail. He won't be bested again—though his bitterness isn't about honor or pride or any sort of bullshit like that. It's just not as fun to lose. Who wants someone else's sloppy seconds?
This time, the mark is one Suzuki Touma, twenty-three, from the post office. (Never let it be said that the Tokyo Spider discriminates.) Hanamiya's just finished packaging the last of him for delivery when a visitor walks in, calmly as he pleases, impeccably dressed but not out of place among the carnage.
"I see I was too late," says the aforementioned motherfucker, surveying Hanamiya's handiwork. A grin crawls across Hanamiya's face, slow and thick as an oil spill.
"You're right on time, thought you're not as smart as I thought, huh?" Hanamiya kicks away the box that contains Suzuki-san's head and stands, all the while with his teeth bared in mockery. "You could follow my bread crumbs, but you didn't realize I was luring you here?"
"I realized it just fine, Mako-chan. But I couldn't resist your little game." The slits that passed for the man's eyes open, just a fraction, but enough to glint in the low light. "What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish?"
Hanamiya stares at him; he's not grinning anymore.
If the man knew his name, his real name, he'd know his weaknesses too. Hanamiya thrives on surprise, in the shadows; he's not so tough when people see him coming.
"No need for the sleaze, it's always nice to meet a fan." He shrugs to hide the shudder of his shoulders, and tries to regain a little bit of his winning smile. "And you are?"
The man's eyes are laughing, though Hanamiya's not sure if it's with him or at him. "Call me Shoichi. I supposed you earned that much."
Motherfucker.
-
Today's mark is—well, who cares? They're only secondary, now. He arrives outside the designated building and steps out of the car. There's no one else on the street—it's past midnight, in the quieter part of town—except for a smiling man in glasses.
"Shall we?" asks Hanamiya. Shoichi places a hand in the small of Hanamiya's back, and a different sort of shudder reverberates through his spine.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, T
Other Tags: death, dismemberment
Word Count: 600
yikes
***
He's been tracking this mark for weeks: learning his schedule, visiting his usual hangouts, even talking to some of his acquaintances. Hanamiya doesn't miss a single step, doesn't err in his preparations or in his execution (hah!), doesn't falter when he thinks anyone might be on his tail. They never are, even when they think otherwise; he isn't on the Most Wanted list for nothing. Hanamiya Makoto of Tokyo Spider fame doesn't make mistakes.
Except, maybe, just this once, in his choice of a mark.
Or what's left of the mark, so to speak.
Sato Haruto, fifty-five, a CEO with no immediate family in the city, is currently the comfort and warmth of his own bed, sleeping like a baby—is the story his face would tell. The rest of him say otherwise.
He's cut open from throat to abdomen like a frog in the midst of dissection, lying peacefully on sheets that used to be white, but were now a deep rust brown. (Like salt in the wound, the blood had already dried—Hanamiya didn't even come close to coming here first.)
But where Hanamiya would characteristically stop—the flaying's always the best part—his predecessor took it a step further. Upon closer inspection, Sato-san seems to be missing all his major organs.
Motherfucker.
-
This time, Hanamiya takes every precaution, doesn't miss a single detail. He won't be bested again—though his bitterness isn't about honor or pride or any sort of bullshit like that. It's just not as fun to lose. Who wants someone else's sloppy seconds?
This time, the mark is one Suzuki Touma, twenty-three, from the post office. (Never let it be said that the Tokyo Spider discriminates.) Hanamiya's just finished packaging the last of him for delivery when a visitor walks in, calmly as he pleases, impeccably dressed but not out of place among the carnage.
"I see I was too late," says the aforementioned motherfucker, surveying Hanamiya's handiwork. A grin crawls across Hanamiya's face, slow and thick as an oil spill.
"You're right on time, thought you're not as smart as I thought, huh?" Hanamiya kicks away the box that contains Suzuki-san's head and stands, all the while with his teeth bared in mockery. "You could follow my bread crumbs, but you didn't realize I was luring you here?"
"I realized it just fine, Mako-chan. But I couldn't resist your little game." The slits that passed for the man's eyes open, just a fraction, but enough to glint in the low light. "What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish?"
Hanamiya stares at him; he's not grinning anymore.
If the man knew his name, his real name, he'd know his weaknesses too. Hanamiya thrives on surprise, in the shadows; he's not so tough when people see him coming.
"No need for the sleaze, it's always nice to meet a fan." He shrugs to hide the shudder of his shoulders, and tries to regain a little bit of his winning smile. "And you are?"
The man's eyes are laughing, though Hanamiya's not sure if it's with him or at him. "Call me Shoichi. I supposed you earned that much."
Motherfucker.
-
Today's mark is—well, who cares? They're only secondary, now. He arrives outside the designated building and steps out of the car. There's no one else on the street—it's past midnight, in the quieter part of town—except for a smiling man in glasses.
"Shall we?" asks Hanamiya. Shoichi places a hand in the small of Hanamiya's back, and a different sort of shudder reverberates through his spine.
"After you."