Yixing Zhang / 26 / Chinese Hitman for Arcanum / Traitor / Closed Roleplay Account “I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.” ― David Benioff, City of Thieves
Freshly cut hair swayed before the woman’s eyes as she watched herself cut open a cloth bag of ‘beans’. Behind her stood her bodyguard, stoic as always while he surveyed the area diligently. His hulking mass brought Sora an odd sort of comfort, knowing her back was covered — but he also made her stiff. Her fluid, graceful movements were broken occasionally, hyper-aware of the man’s gaze boring a hole in her back. In contrast, before her a lanky individual with jet black hair and ever-shifting eyes stood trembling, his hands gathered behind his back as he watched Sora pull a bundle of heroin from the cloth. His presence brought her nothing but discomfort, the gleam in his eyes making her stomach churn.
Tablet in hand, the woman listed off the usual information in a monotone voice: cost of the transfer, which account the money should be transferred to, how much product there was, etc. All the while her contact seemed distracted, nodding as though he weren’t actually listening and looking about nervously. Sora was highly uncomfortable, the man’s restless nature making her nervous. What in the hell was he so afraid of? He looked like a damn tweeker.
Once her informational speech was over, the woman awaited an answer, raising a brow slightly when the man didn’t immediately respond. “What?” he’s sputtered after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes flicked around.
Yixing’s softly breathed words came out as nothing more than a weak puff of airy mist before his eyes as he trekked over the uneven earth—his dark messenger bag swinging lazily by his side as numb fingers slid tracks over bear arms in order to bring some semblance of warmth to them.
The world was lousy with cold this afternoon, freezing moisture hanging in the air like a frosted blanket as a biting north chill nipped at any exposed skin. He mourned his lack of sleeves in weather such as this with his arms exposed to the elements and his shirt too thin to battle the brisk gusts. It seemed as if fate itself had a way of cursing him for his actions. It did not make killing pleasant, it never let him forget how despicable his job truly was.
It always started with a text; a death sentence not even given the dignity of being spoken aloud.
The phone message had been a simple one; an address stark against the glowing backdrop, an execution time gleaming dully from the text, and a picture attached with his victim’s eyes already staring forward at Yixing with a dead sheen to them.
It was strange. Years ago the young hitman would have seen this target as human, a person with a life and a history, but now—now when he looked into those eyes he no longer saw a life, but a corpse. He saw this man as a name in the obituaries; a heart, lungs, and throat that would soon be torn apart by his actions…Destroyed oh so easily. Perhaps he saw them this way because it was easier, viewing them as non-living already made the thoughts of “what they were” and “what they could be” less prevalent. A corpse did not have a future, a corpse did not have dreams. They were nothing, and “nothing” could not haunt him.
He could do it this way.
So it was that he ended up out here, treading over a frozen earth with the press of a rifle tapping repetitively against his legs through the thin cloth of his bag, and his limbs freezing from both the chill around him and the ice slowly encapsulating his heart.
Yixing looked back from whence he’d come after a moment of walking, staring rearward to reassure himself that the taxi was still there, that his escape route had not abandoned him.He breathed better seeing the car, the slowly spluttering engine pumping pollution into the sky. He had an out, that was what truly mattered. Even if absolutely everything went wrong, as long as he had an escape nothing would change in the end. He would live on, breathe on, strive onwards. So it was safe to push forward.
Setting up camp a little ways from the warehouse and in a space outside of the taxi’s view, Yixing dropped one knee to the ground, unpacking his bag with sharp, smooth movements built from years of practice with this particular weapon. It was calming almost; the slide of chilled metal under his fingers reminding him of all the times he’d practiced just this—all those times he’d assembled and dissembled this gun within the walls of home, and inside the safety therein.
In a matter of moments the man’s weapon was put together, his heart calming as he leveled his breathing and closed frozen fingers around the gun nestled in the crumbling underbrush’s embrace. He positioned his eye at the scope—moving the sights in such a way that he could view the figures through the windows, the bodies shifting in shadow. He saw the big man first, the hardness of his face and the strength of his frame all ghostly in the low light. He would have to worry about that one, he could feel it, but it was not his target so his sights shifted again.
The woman was who he spotted next, Yixing quickly changing his view after identifying her so that his scope rested on the last figure fidgeting in the meager glow.
Bingo.
It was true, Yixing did not know what was happening between the motley group, but neither did he need to know. It was not his job to understand after all—not his place to question… only to destroy.
As the target’s lips parted to speak his last words the hitman’s finger curled around the trigger, taking a deep breath in preparation, understanding that this could be his one and only shot.—one bullet through the brain or hours of nerves later on.
In that moment there was such a strange touch of calmness that claimed him, the even nature of his breathing mingling with the support of his unwavering stance against the earth. It was absorbing, like a trance. Then, with the cold scope resting against his cheek and his breath slowly exhaling from parted lips, the man let his muscles relax, his finger slowly constricting on the trigger until he felt it give way with a click. There was a bang then, an explosion of gunpowder erupting in tandem and his weapon shuttering within his grasp.
The life taken so quickly that it almost seemed unreal.
He saw the display—beholding it as if in a dream; the bullet crashing through the glass before powering into the skull of his victim—that corpse, knocking the already dead man backwards as blood and grey matter erupted from the exit wound in a horrific show of merciless gore.
It was over…or at least it was for the druggy now bleeding out against the dirt.
Hello everyone! Like many of the lovely writers who have already posted, I too will be keeping Yixing open to anyone who still wishes to plot/continue writing with him.
This roleplay, story, people and plot has truly been amazing thus far and I am so grateful to Jane for creating such a wonderful outlet for creativity with SAB. I am privileged to be among you all and would be overjoyed to continue even in light of the organized directory closing. I am sad, but hopeful. Ahaha, AT THE VERY LEAST MY YIXING MUSE IS NOT LEAVING ME ANYTIME SOON SO THERE'S THAT. (the muse is strong with this one) *laughs* Again, thank you all for being such sweethearts in welcoming and roleplaying with me. I have nothing but good to say about this group. <3
yoona didn’t answer him immediately. instead, she tilted her head back, eyes closed, and let the heat of the sun rays meet her face. summer was her favourite time of year, where the grass was cut daily, and the light, warm brush of a breeze cause the scent to circle around her. another perk of being one of the two people who bothered to go on the rooftop, was the scent and the warmth was at it’s best here. yoona wanted to take it all in, before the silence was broken again.
she gave him a smile, and tilted her head slightly; chin resting on the palm of her hand, pressing against her thigh. “i was held up sadly. the trouble twins decided they own the earth.” yoona chuckled, though her true feeling was beyond annoyed.
adverting the conversation as quickly as the breeze changed, yoona reached out her free hand, and tapped the edge of the book with her index finger. “you sure like to study. sometimes i wonder if i should really be here, annoying you.” again, she chuckled, and shifted to lean back slightly. though her words were true; she really did think perhaps her looking over his shoulder, asking silly questions and theories would put a hinder on what he really wanted. yoona didn’t want to hear the answer though. her smile grew. “so, how have you been?”
There was silence briefly shared in the brilliance of that tepid afternoon; a brief moment of stalled appreciation spent in the high, airy places suspended somewhere between the pleasant breeze drifting over feverish skin and the heavy heat that pounded from the oppressive sun shining far above. Yixing was in no way impatient in that mild calm, neither holding out hope for a reply nor restless for their conversation to begin again after his own lazy words had ended. It was a peace he found there with the warm embrace of the rooftop radiating around him; it was a calm he felt with his only true friend breathing evenly by his side. For the young man so trapped in the horrors of his own reality, moments such as these—moments dusted over by the almost fictitious fairy-dust of unrealistic serenity and undeserved amity—it was moments like these that he clung to, moments that if time control was in his arsenal he would freeze within and never let go of. Rare things he held dear.
So it was that as Yoona breathed in the warm scent of freshly cut lawns and the rooftop's heat mingling about them, Yixing slowly slid the pages of his book together, closing the volume silently with the weight of that haunting study already beginning to lift from his tired thoughts. And he was so tired. Exhaustion was such a common struggle now, a constant battle against his breaking body until the effects of mortality won and sleep claimed his burning eyes. However, while most days he cursed his blurring gaze, scatterbrained mind and aching limbs, here—lost in this world elevated from all else that plagues him—it was almost okay to be tired—almost okay to let go…there was no fear.
But silence has to be broken as silence is destined to do, the solemn eyes of the young Chinese boy shifting briefly towards his smiling companion with the spark of something almost kindred igniting weakly in his chest.
Then, with Yixing listening, the girl’s conversation shifted like the turn of a tide; one subject traded for another without a single sound vocalized in response from the older male. To him there was no comment, no need to linger on the tragedies both knew were common in a place like Saint Mary’s. So instead Yixing simply listened, simply took it all in with his slowly callousing fingers tracing subconscious lines over his book’s frayed binding and his dazed eyes turning to stare off into the nothingness of space ahead.
Peaceful.
The boy was only brought back to reality by Yoona’s lithe tap against the dictionary’s cover; eyes blinking slowly and a small shake shifting his head in response. Thin fingers then rose lazily to rub at the blurry glaze obstructing his vision, pulling himself back to the present as his lips parted to speak simply.
“As good as ever…” Yixing breathed in indifference to her words, a small shrug claiming his shoulders as a light waft of wind shifted the fringe at his brow. The young man then shook his head once more, settling his volume to the side before leaning back against the warmly radiating rooftop. “Not much ever changes here after all. Bruises come and go, people appear then disappear, but in the end it’s all the same.” His hands leisurely take their place tucked behind his head and his eyes gaze upwards searchingly with a sigh.
Legs screaming in aching pain with each pounding step, heart beating against his ribcage rapidly with terror igniting its pace, breath nothing more than a wheezing gasp at the back of his throat as the greedy claws of fear grasped at his lungs.
Yixing was in a dream.
He was lost, caught like some wild animal between the jaws of unconsciousness and the terrors of his awoken mind. Like a being tumbling through space he was falling, twisting through the air between wakefulness and sleep with confusion intoxicating his mind. He was running, his legs throwing themselves painfully through the streets of Seoul while his true legs tensed and his body stiffened in the embrace of his mattress. He couldn’t breathe, like he was being smothered by the air itself on all sides as his dream self ran on and on. Blood-- thick, slippery, metallic blood was sliding down his arms like a snake, twisting around his limbs as if trying to squeeze the very life out of him.
And it was working.
He gasped, both in pain and shock, with the noise created so real that it could have passed from his living lips as well. Blood like lava was bubbling from his chest in rivulets of red, seeping between his shaking fingers before the blade was drawn from him, and then he was falling. Everything was muddled, his legs giving way beneath him far more than what seemed possible as he dropped. He was crumbling, disintegrating into ash, but when he looked up to the face of his killer standing so far above him, it was his own face that stared back at him…his own cold eyes that condemned him.
And then he woke.
Shaking hands clutched at his chest as he shot up in bed, sweat pouring from a clammy brow as heavy, irregular pants stole the stillness of his room. He felt sick, his chest heaving with each shuttering breath as he stared forward into the early morning gloom of his small living space, the world swimming, his heart pounding against his palm. Yixing didn’t know what to think or what to feel, emotions and remaining fear coursing through his veins like a chant, crashing over him live waves and robbing him of his calm. He shook his head, running shaky fingers through damp hair and closing his eyes as he tried to dam up the images that flooded through his mind. But to no avail.
He was always the monster in his dreams. No matter what the problem he was always there, his hardened self causing everything, those eyes haunting him from every mirror and every picture. There was no escape from them, no place to hide…even his sleep when seldom stolen held that cruel gaze.
He needed to shake this.
With his eyes flashing open Yixing tried to pull himself beyond the sickness churning in his stomach, swallowing past the metallic taste in his mouth before he drug his weary form from the mat he called a bed. Sweat clung to his shirt as he rid himself of the suffocating material, throwing the discarded piece to the side before taking a deep breath. Another day lay ahead of him, hours upon hours his unrested mind would have to deal with. He told himself he was ready, and as the nightmare began to fade in light of the new morning, he truly hoped he was right.
---
Hours later and the sun was beginning to rise over the Crimson Lotus, the mist of early morning still hanging in the air outside as it battled the evaporating heat of the peaking sun.
Yixing looked better as he stood in the kitchen of his workplace; white earphones pumping melodic nothings into his mind as he methodically sliced through vegetables, preparing for the night crowds the restaurant would bring in. Though the dark circles of the night’s adventures still painted exhaustion under his eyes he seemed no different than any other day. Black bangs fell before his gaze as the knife in his grip cut with experience through the various ingredients, his sleeves rolled up around his arms and an apron hanging about his waist. He would have looked normal, standing there as he was…but the bruises on his face and the small scars tracing up his bare arms made sure to remedy that normalcy.
In truth, the nightmares of his evening had not been too different than the course of his true night; reality and fiction a mix as it had swirled within his exhausted mind. The dream had simply continued where his night had left off, ending tragically at the edge of a knife, while his true evening had finished with him collapsing to his waiting mattress. However the bruises and metallic taste of blood had still remained even upon waking, and even after cleaning up for the day it was these marks of war he wore so plainly now.
Yet they did not hold him back.
Many hours passed within the quiet embrace of work, slipping seamlessly into the peaceful morning until a soft, chiming bell at the front door rung through the restaurant and a harsh Mandarin call beckoned him from the dining room. The young man was pulled from his daze by those words, yanking out his earphone and setting his knife down before brushing his hands on the apron and following the call.
Yixing slipped through the kitchen silently, past the counter, and then entered the small dining space in full view of the entryway. There were people standing there, a small group all chattering in Chinese with the owners of the Lotus among them. Though Xing remained slightly confused about the meaning of this gathering, he was introduced in Mandarin to the small group upon approaching and he bowed respectively, trying to make sense of it all.
dailybridgerton
dededos
germansingergirl
discoholicmusic
izzy806
snowghoul
