" 𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 " [PROLOGUE]
DISCLAIMERS, WARNINGS & AUTHOR’S VERY PROFESSIONAL NOTES
A hitman with anger issues. (But he smells good, so it’s fine.)
A cleaner MC who is definitely not normal.
(Because why are you so good at this?)
Ridiculous yandere behavior. (Please do not attempt this at home.)
Slice-of-life. (But crime-flavored.)
--Disclaimer--Disclaimer--Disclaimer--
This is a fictional work. Not real. Ridiculous. Stupid. And most importantly—for entertainment purposes only. I, the author, do not condone murder, crime, or falling in love with emotionally unavailable hitmen. (But if he smells good, I understand.)
Also, I do not support yandere behavior. But Mr. Zy isn’t real, so we can enjoy this in peace. The images are not mine :D They are ither edited or they came from Pinterest.
- Regarding the Highly Suspicious Cleaning Accuracy-
Do I know how to clean up crime scenes? Heh.
A secret. (Just kidding. I googled it. Also, don’t believe everything I say—this is not an expository essay, it’s fictional chaos.)
This is slice-of-life. No exact timeline. Time flows as it pleases. Logic? We don’t know her. Now, buckle up, grab your pink apron, and enjoy the ride.
Not, like, big dreams—nothing too delusional, nothing that involved saving the world or becoming some great person. No, your dreams were reasonable. Manageable. Simple.
Maybe get a nice job. Something where you wouldn’t have to deal with too many people (because, let’s be honest, most people are gross). Maybe a stable paycheck. An apartment that doesn’t come with complimentary cockroaches. A life that isn’t actively falling apart.
Veygrove City—Home of Crime, Blood, and Probably a Future Headline With Your Name in It.
Look, Veygrove isn’t exactly known for its safety. It’s the kind of place where the crime rate is so high, the police just stopped pretending they cared. Where the rich live in luxury, the poor get stepped on, and the middle class? Doesn’t exist. Nope. This is not Gotham.
This city eats people alive. And if you’re not careful, you become part of the pavement.
Which is why you tried to play it safe.
Which is why you, a completely normal and responsible 24-year-old, took an internship at a totally legit (read: highly questionable) office.
Now you’re watching your boss bleed out on his own desk.
One Hour Ago:
Another Day, Another Scam
Your current job? A glorified call center scam.
Officially, the company was called "Greenleaf Financial Solutions." In reality, you were working for a bunch of sweaty, coffee-addicted conmen scamming people out of their money. You were supposed to be learning “business strategies.” Instead, you spent most of your time not touching anything (because, ew, these desks were disgusting) and trying to ignore your coworker, Greg, who smelled like expired deli meat.
But, hey. It paid the bills. Barely.
At least the job didn’t require much. You were a cleaner here, which meant two things:
You cleaned up paperwork—aka shredded anything incriminating when the wrong kind of people came knocking.
You cleaned up actual messes—which mostly meant spilled coffee, but given the shady nature of this place, you figured it was only a matter of time before you had to mop up something worse.
(You were right. You just didn’t think it would be this soon.)
Present Time:
Boss Down, Hot Guy Up
It happened so fast, you almost didn’t process it.
One second, your boss—a greasy, rat-looking man named Dominic—was screaming at some very tall, very brooding man in a dark suit. The next?
Your boss slumped forward, a bullet between his eyes, and the man holding the gun didn’t even blink. Just casually adjusted his grip, exhaled smoke from his cigarette, and—without a single ounce of urgency—tucked his gun away like this was Monday.
…Okay. So. That happened.
You should probably react. Scream, cry, run, something.
Instead, all your brain managed was:
Which—not the appropriate response. But in your defense, the man was ridiculously attractive in a tall, dark, and dangerously competent kind of way. Late 30s? Early 40s? Sharp suit, broad shoulders, goatee, and an expression so unreadable it could probably scare the IRS. The whole gritty hitman aesthetic was working way too well.
(Your poor, thirsty little brain was thriving in the worst moment possible.)
Narrowed his eyes, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers.
So. Uh. What’s the move here? Panic? Faint? Run?
Apparently, none of the above. Because, instead, this absolute hell of a man reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black business card, and slid it across the desk—right through the blood.
You stared at him. Then at the card. Then back at him.
The blood on the card was fresh—approximately 4 minutes old (judging by viscosity and color).
And, God help you, all you could think was: Wow, he smells expensive.
You flipped the card between your fingers, the blood smearing just a little. The edges were crisp, the lettering elegant—nothing cheap, nothing rushed. Classy.
Zy
(No last name. Just Zy. Mysterious.)
Underneath, a phone number. No title, no company name, no unnecessary details.
Simple. Efficient. Very much "call this number and you're in a crime syndicate now."
You looked up. He was still watching you, deep blue eyes unreadable, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
His hair—just slightly gray at the temples—was neatly combed back, and that mustache? Oh. Oh, it was working for him. Distinguished. Refined. Daddy-coded.
(I should not be finding this man attractive.)
But, hey. You were jobless now. So.
Zy’s lips quirked—barely noticeable, but it was there. Amusement? Interest? Hard to tell. His voice, when he spoke, was deep. Steady. A low timbre that made you want to lean in, just a little.
A pause. You narrowed your eyes.
You: "Cleaning… what, exactly?"
He exhaled, the scent of expensive tobacco curling between you. Then, as if he wasn’t offering something completely insane, he gestured loosely toward your ex-boss’s corpse.
You tapped the card against your palm.
You: "…So. Just to clarify. You’re offering me a job to clean up… murder?"
Zy: "Crime scenes, evidence disposal, asset management." He paused, then added, "And occasionally, laundry."
Your brain did a small, polite error 404 before catching up.
Zy: "Dry cleaners can be unreliable."
This man—this deadly, extremely well-dressed, unreasonably attractive hitman—was out here committing murder and complaining about bad customer service?
Honestly? Fair. Dry cleaners were a scam.
Still, you kept your expression neutral.
You: "And what’s the pay?"
Another hum. Zy took another slow drag of his cigarette, then—carefully—leaned forward just enough that you could smell the faint cologne beneath the smoke. Musky. The kind of scent that stayed with you.
He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he could already predict your answer.
Zy: "More than this place paid you."
…Alright. You weren’t dumb.
One job had you making minimum wage while surrounded by fraud and Greg’s questionable hygiene.
The other? Significantly less legal, but significantly more lucrative.
And—objectively speaking—you were good at cleaning. Great, even. You could erase bloodstains, scrub out evidence, dismantle crime scenes with the efficiency of a damn forensics team.
And if you happened to have a dangerously attractive, mustached employer with deep blue eyes? Well.
You slipped the card into your pocket.
The slowest smirk. Zy stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and—without another word—walked past you, already expecting you to follow.
That’s how you got hired by the most dangerous man in Veygrove.
2087
vaporwave
pixelskylines
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
kaledo-art
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
tangentwithtanner
