mien

author / artist / editor / vegetable

[clemeientene]

𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙤;; clemeientene

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

❝ clemeientene ❞

often known as mien.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

✎ writer | artist | editor | student running on minimal sleep

✎ deeply invested in fiction & storytelling

✎ from ph

✎ i write and post for fun, but interactions keep me motivated

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

✧ primarily active on quotev → clemeientene [📌]

*✧･ﾟ: * 𝓜𝔂 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓴𝓼 :･ﾟ✧

❥ [ BLEACH X BLOOD ] ✦ (yandere! hitman x gn! reader) – posted! ↳ Read here: 🔗 BLEACH X BLOOD

❥ [ EYE CONTACT ] ✦ (yandere! various x fem! reader) – to be posted

❥ [ THE LANDLORD ] ✦ (landlord! fem! reader x male! various) – to be posted

✧ More to come soon! 💉🖤

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

reblogs > likes. enjoy your stay. ʚ♡ɞ

[clemeientene]

i feel like a complete shit

[clemeientene]

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 || Yan!Hitman x Gn!Reader

[ 03 ] ✦ 𝒚𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓

previous chapter: 02 [ convinience & yapping ]

The freezer smelled like death, and not the poetic, cinematic kind.

No, this was the real kind—the kind that clung to your nostrils like an ex who wouldn’t move on.

The air was cold, icy, and filled with the metallic smell of blood that had already begun to congeal in places it definitely shouldn’t be.

The bodies? Well, there were four of them, all in various states of “oops, I’ve been brutally murdered.”

And here you were, in your pink apron, standing in the middle of it all like some kind of cursed housekeeper.

Mr. Zy, your extremely problematic employer who somehow made "mildly bleeding in a corner" look attractive, was watching you work. Silently. Like a cat watching a mouse. Or, more accurately, like a hitman watching his cleaner expertly dispose of the evidence while he dripped blood onto the tile.

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves. Alright, let’s do this. Time to educate the masses.

Step One: Assess the Situation.

Four bodies. One industrial-grade freezer. Blood pooled across the floor, already freezing in some places. Messy. Not the worst you’d seen (Greg’s office still haunted you), but still, not great. The key was efficiency—minimizing cleanup, maximizing disposal.

Step Two: Positioning Matters.

You tilted your head, eyeing the bodies critically. “Alright, we need to stack them properly. You can’t just throw corpses in like Tetris blocks, or you’ll end up with dead guy Jenga.”

Mr. Zy exhaled smoke, watching. “Stack?”

“Yes, stack. Unless you want to play ‘guess which limb this belongs to’ later.” You gestured dramatically. “You think the people who do this professionally just throw them in like a kid cleaning their room? No. There’s a method.”

He gave a slow blink, unimpressed. But he didn’t argue.

Step Three: The Art of Disguise.

Now came the fun part. You bent down, avoiding the literal puddle of human juice, and started working.

Blood had already begun to freeze, so you chipped away at it methodically while maneuvering the bodies into the most space-efficient arrangement.

“See, the trick is layering. If you freeze them right, they don’t stick together like a human popsicle pack.”

Mr. Zy watched, silent as ever.

Does he just stand there for fun? Is this entertaining for him?

You glanced up. Oh. Oh.

His deep blue eyes were focused on you, his expression unreadable, and was he leaning against the wall like some tragic villain? His slightly grayish hair was tousled just right, and the way the cigarette balanced between his fingers—ugh. Disgusting. Unreasonably attractive. Jail.

“Why are you staring?” you blurted, more annoyed at your own thoughts than anything.

“I listen.”

“To what?”

“You.”

You paused mid-cleanup, brain buffering. Oh.

That was… that was new. People never listened to you. You mostly yapped into the void while people either ignored you or, in Greg’s case, actively walked away.

But this guy? This guy was different.

And somehow, that was worse.

There was something deeply concerning about how casual Mr. Zy was about this. Maybe it was the fact that he was still slightly bleeding, yet somehow more interested in watching you work than tending to his wounds.

Maybe it was the way he rolled up his sleeves like he was about to make sourdough—except instead of dough, it was a guy named Darren who probably owed money to the wrong people.

Or maybe it was the fact that he was doing this barehanded.

“You’re not even gonna—” You gestured vaguely at his entire existence. “—I don’t know, put on gloves?”

He flexed his fingers, looking at them like he was considering it for a whole half-second before shrugging. “No need.”

“No need?” You repeated, incredulous. “No need?! Sir, that is a whole dead guy. He has bacteria. Diseases. Maybe a life insurance policy.”

Zy ignored you. Instead, he reached down and, with terrifying ease, grabbed one of the bodies by the arm. There was a sickening crunch-pop as the frozen shoulder joint gave way like an overused stress toy.

You grimaced. “Great. Love that sound.”

You weren’t sure what was worse—the sheer strength required to do that or the fact that he didn’t even look mildly inconvenienced by it. Like, yeah, I can snap a dude’s arm off with my bare hands, no big deal, wanna get coffee later?

But you had work to do. And at the end of the day, bodies were bodies, and a job was a job. You rolled your shoulders and cracked your knuckles. Time to educate the masses again.

Types of Disposal & Their Uses

Chop & Drop (Dismemberment 101)

The classic. Cut them up into smaller, manageable pieces. You glanced at Zy’s lack of tools and sighed.

“You ever use a bone saw, or do you just Hulk your way through everything?”

He gave you a look. “Hulk.”

Of course.And then, to prove his point, he literally grabbed a leg, twisted, and—oh.

Oh, there it went.

The femur just snapped. Like it was a breadstick.

You blinked. “Okay. That’s illegal.”

“Everything here is.

”Fair.

The Acid Bath (Not As Cool As It Sounds)

Melting bodies in acid? Overrated.

Takes too long. Too expensive. Plus, who the hell has that much hydrofluoric acid lying around? Breaking Bad really did a number on people. You didn’t even suggest it.

Grinder or Woodchipper (Extreme Mulching)

Messy. Too messy.

The last thing you needed was stray human confetti flying around.Zy, to his credit, looked vaguely intrigued by the idea.

You pointed a warning finger at him.

“No.”

He tilted his head.

“No.” He exhaled smoke, noncommittal.

Burn Baby Burn (Fire Solves Most Things)

Fire worked. But fire also attracted attention. You didn’t need the Veygrove fire department rolling up, finding four half-melted skeletons, and collectively deciding to quit their jobs.

Frozen Goods (Tonight’s Special: Not-So-Fresh Meat)

Now this? This was a winner. Freezing bodies slowed decomposition. Kept the smell to a minimum. Plus, a well-packed freezer meant no leaks. You just had to—crack—do some creative folding.

Zy tossed a severed arm into a garbage bag like he was throwing out last week’s leftovers. You sighed. This man was going to give you an aneurysm.

At some point, Zy leaned against the counter, watching you work with that same unreadable expression. You could feel his gaze, like a sniper scope trained on your existence. Finally, he spoke.

“You’re good at this.”

You huffed, wiping your forehead. “Yeah, well, someone has to be.”

Then—

“Why?”

You froze. Not because of the question itself, but because of the fact that he asked.

Mr. Zy never asked things. He observed. Lurked. Occasionally made unsettling eye contact. But outright asking?

That was new.

You exhaled, considering your answer. “Because people are messy,” you finally said, tying off a garbage bag. “And if no one cleans it up, it just stays messy. That’s how you get caught.”

Another pause. Then, slowly, he nodded—like you’d passed some kind of secret test.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Final Thoughts:

Bodies = Gone.

Floor = Clean.

Mr. Zy = Distractingly Hot Even When Covered in Blood. Again.

You didn’t say that last part out loud, obviously. You had some shame.

But still.

You stole a glance at him, rolling your eyes as he lit another cigarette. “Can you at least bandage yourself before you drop dead?”

He looked at you.

And then, in the most stupidly attractive way possible, he just muttered, “Not dead yet.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Great. Fantastic. Amazing. You were never going to survive this job.

 You had done your job. You had done it well. Time to pack up, go home, and maybe pretend that your boss wasn’t stupidly attractive even when covered in the remnants of several unfortunate individuals.

But then, in the middle of your I should leave before my brain betrays me plan, something unexpected happened.

He reached into his pocket.

You tensed immediately. Because, let’s be honest, when a hitman reaches into his pocket, the reasonable response is to assume violence. But no—what he pulled out wasn’t a weapon. Wasn’t a knife. Wasn’t even more bullets.

It was money.

And then—oh God—he pulled out something else.

A sticker book.

You stared. "No way."

Mr. Zy, the most feared hitman in Veygrove, casually thumbed through his sticker book, flipping past pages filled with sparkly unicorns, motivational quotes, and tiny cats wearing sunglasses, before peeling one off with the precision of a man assembling a sniper rifle.

He handed it to you.

You didn’t even look at it yet. You were too busy processing.

“So,” you said slowly, “let me get this straight.” You gestured to the money in one hand. “This is extra?”

A nod.

“For what?”

A pause. Then, gruffly, “You did good.” You blinked. “I always do good.”

Another nod. As if he was acknowledging a fact.

Then, still casual as ever, he pointed at the sticker still sitting in your palm.

“That,” he said, “is also extra.”

Your brain broke.

“You just… carry a sticker book? Everywhere?”

“…Yes.”

The silence stretched.

You squinted. “You’re telling me—”

“Yes.”

“—you’re walking around with a loaded gun, a bloody knife, two extra magazines, and a freaking sticker book?”

“Yes.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Do you have multiple sticker books?”

He exhaled a thin trail of smoke, looking at you like he was considering whether or not to answer.

“…Yes.”

Jesus Christ.

You finally looked down at the sticker. It was a cartoon frog giving a thumbs-up. Below it, in cheerful font, were the words: "Nice job, champ!"

“…I don’t know how to react to this,” you admitted, half-laughing, half-spiraling into an existential crisis.

He didn’t react. Just flicked his lighter shut, stuck the cigarette between his lips, and—God help you—had the audacity to look hot while doing it.

Then, because apparently you weren’t already malfunctioning enough, he added, "I apologize."

Your brain rebooted. "Huh?"

"For being bad at my job."

"Hm."

He gave a lazy shrug. "Made a mess."

"Well....Mess comes with the job description.." [Fuck, I fumbled.]

Another slow drag of his cigarette. He exhaled smoke. "Doesn't mean I like it."

You stared at him. This was… a weird moment. A rare moment. Mr. Zy, the terrifying, unkillable, oddly considerate hitman, was sitting here, looking down at the floor with a slight crease between his brows—like he actually cared that he’d made things difficult for you.

And if that wasn’t strange enough, he wasn’t done talking.

“By the way,” he muttered, flicking ash to the side, “don’t shut up.”

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes—so deep, so unreadable, so ridiculously distracting—meeting yours with actual intention. “I like listening.”

…

What.

WHAT.

Most hitmen—hell, most people—probably wanted their employees to shut up. To be quiet, efficient, and obedient. But noooooo, apparently this one had decided he liked your constant yapping.

You squinted at him. “Are you feeling okay?”

A slight eyebrow twitch. “Yes.” “You sure? No brain damage?” A slow inhale. Slow exhale. “Yes.”

You crossed your arms, lips twitching. “So… just to confirm. You, a very scary hitman, are telling me, your very unscary cleaner, to continue talking?”

A long pause. Then, very simply, “Yes.”

Your entire existence felt thrown off balance. Because, sure, you were used to dealing with his general weirdness—his silent lurking, his casual rage murder, his questionable fashion choices (seriously, why the pink apron?)—but this? This was new.

And frankly, it was dangerous.

Because it meant he was paying attention.

And if he was paying attention, that meant he was listening to everything you said.

Which meant that one day, inevitably, your simping was going to slip out.

You needed to leave. Immediately.

“Okay, well!” You clapped your hands, stuffing the extra cash into your pocket. “That’s great, boss. Love that for me. And for you. And for our very strange professional dynamic. But if I stay here any longer, I might say something really stupid, so I’m gonna—”

“Say it.”

"No."

His gaze narrowed slightly, as if considering pushing the matter, but then he just shrugged. "Next time."

Your soul left your body. NEXT TIME?

You needed out. Right now.

Grabbing your supplies, your stupid sticker reward, and what was left of your self-control, you bolted.

And as you did, you could feel his gaze still on you, as calm and unreadable as ever.

God help you.

[clemeientene]

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 || Yan!Hitman x Gn!Reader

[ 02 ] ✦ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 & 𝒚𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈

previous chapter: 01 [ decoding mr. zy]

Veygrove.

A city that never sleeps, never smiles, and never has a single clear sky.

The clouds? Permanently gray. The streets? Flooded with bounty papers. The air? A refreshing mix of cigarette smoke, gunpowder, and crushed dreams.

And you?

Currently standing outside your apartment, holding a bloodstained business card between your fingers.

Mr. Zy’s card.

Your new boss.

Huh.

You’re not jobless anymore.

No more Greg. No more Dominic. No more sticky white mystery substances from whatever ungodly thing they were doing in that scam office.

…But now you’re employed under a dangerous man.

A very, very dangerous man.

Is this worse? Is this better? Who knows. At least Mr. Zy smells insanely good and doesn’t talk unless absolutely necessary.

You inhale, exhale, shove the card into your pocket. No time for an existential crisis right now.

Lucky needs food.

The walk to the convenience store is as thrilling as always.

By thrilling, you mean mildly depressing and borderline dystopian.

Billboards flicker with ads that probably fund some illegal operations. Trash cans overflow with wanted posters. A guy in a hoodie runs past you at full speed, clutching a stolen wallet.

Ah.

Another robbery.

How cute.

At this point, you should really start budgeting for these.

You sigh, stepping into the store. Maybe they’ll still let you buy cat food despite the happenings?

No. No, they won’t.

Because the cashier is currently on the floor, tied up.

And the shelves? Being emptied by some masked dude who is very enthusiastic about crime.

You make eye contact with the tied-up cashier.

He blink at you.

You blink back.

…You are so tired.

You just needed cat food.

Not a hostage situation.

And then.

Oh god.

He walks in.

Cam.

Caramel Ellis.

Your neighbor.

Your junior police officer neighbor.

The guy with auburn hair, bright green eyes, and a personality that screams "I want to change the world someday!!"

(AKA: An absolute delulu)

“Hey! (Y/N)!” Cam beams the second he spots you, completely ignoring the robbery happening right in front of him.

You eye the criminal, then back at Cam.

“Hey, Cam,” you deadpan. “You’re late.”

“Late for what?” He tilts his head, confused.

You gesture vaguely. “The crime. The very obvious crime.”

Cam finally, finally looks around.

And then—gasps.

“Oh my god, a robbery!” He shouts. Like he just discovered a new species.

The robber visibly flinches.

The cashier groans.

You rub your temples.

This idiot.

There are a lot of things happening right now.

You are hungry.

Lucky—your beloved son (who happens to be a cat)—is also hungry.

This store is getting robbed.

Your junior police officer neighbor just realized it’s getting robbed.

The cashier, Mr. Lu, a retired assassin, is tied up on the floor and visibly done with life.

Honestly?

Just another Monday in Veygrove.

Cam, bless his delusional heart, springs into action.

He has no gun. No backup. Just sheer optimism and the muscle mass of a guy who probably works out by doing push-ups while thinking about justice.

“Stop right there!” Cam yells, striking an actual police stance.

The robber pauses.

You watch, unimpressed.

Cam, vibrating with idealism, points at the guy. “You think you can just walk into this store and steal from innocent people?”

The robber, very slowly, tilts his head. “Uh. Yeah?”

Cam looks visibly betrayed.

You sigh, stepping back. “Alright, let me know when you’re done with this.”

Cam snaps toward you. “(Y/N), this is serious!”

“Yeah,” you gesture at the tied-up grandpa on the floor. “I noticed.”

Mr. Lu, who has been completely silent this whole time, sighs deeply. He has the expression of a man who has seen too much and regrets every second of it.

He gives you a tired look. “Kid. Help me up.”

You crouch down and start untying the ropes. “How much do you hate this job right now?”

Mr. Lu lets out a long, painful sigh. “You know… last time someone rob store, I say, ‘Not my problem.’ You know why?”

“Because you don’t care?” you guess.

“Because I don’t care,” Mr. Lu confirms.

Cam, still locked in a dramatic standoff with the robber, whips his head around. “Mr. Lu! You should care!”

Mr. Lu does not even blink. “Boy, I retire from killing long time ago. You think I start again for some milk and chips?”

Cam gasps like he just got personally attacked.

The robber, probably rethinking his life choices, takes a slow step back.

You glance at Mr. Lu. “So… I assume you don’t have my cat food?”

Mr. Lu looks at the absolute disaster of his store. Then back at you.

“…No.”

Great. Your son is going to starve.

Meanwhile, Cam is still trying to convince the robber to surrender using pure words.

"Deep down, you don't want to do this," Cam insists, stepping forward. "Crime isn't the answer. There are other paths!"

The robber squints at him. "Bro. What are you talking about?"

You sigh and turn to Mr. Lu. "Do we step in?"

Mr. Lu shrugs. "I don't kill anymore. You do what you want."

You rub your temples. This is so exhausting.

…You just needed cat food.

SHIT HAPPENS....

There are two things you did not expect today:

1. Mr. Lu just threw a coin with the speed of a sniper bullet.

2. Mr. Zy just caught it with his fingers.

…What.

Cam is still mid-lecture with the robber, completely oblivious to the absolute showdown happening behind him.

And you?

You are hiding behind a shelf of instant noodles, because what the hell is happening?

Mr. Zy, standing in the middle of the wrecked store, flips the coin between his fingers. The fluorescent lights gave a soft gleam on his gloved hands as he calmly regards Mr. Lu. His deep blue eyes—the kind that look like a raging ocean but move like still water—don’t waver. His cigarette is perched lazily between his lips, smoke curling in lazy tendrils.

And Mr. Lu?

Pure disgust.

"…Why you here, huh?"

Mr. Lu grunts, crossing his arms. His thick accent makes the words sharp, like he's spitting them out. “You make mess again?”

You squint from behind the shelf. "Again?"

Mr. Zy exhales a slow stream of smoke. His voice is low, velvety—the kind of voice that sounds like it should be illegal. His accent is subtle, a slight European edge, but rough around the vowels.

“Mm. Not today.”

He flicks the coin back towards Mr. Lu. The old man catches it effortlessly, flipping it between his fingers with a sneer.

"You lucky I retire." Mr. Lu rolls the coin across his knuckles, eyes sharp like knives. "Next time, I no miss."

WHAT DO YOU MEAN NEXT TIME?

You stare, horrified.

Cam is still trying to convince the robber to surrender.

And Mr. Zy?

He simply adjusts his gloves, exhales another puff of smoke, and—this man has the audacity to look amused.

"Mm." Mr. Zy tilts his head. “Apologies.”

Mr. Lu scoffs so aggressively you almost feel the secondhand disrespect. “Tch. Too late.”

Too late for what?!

You force yourself to act normal.

He’s just a random stranger. Not your boss. Not your sudden source of income. Just a hot older man with bloodstained gloves who smells disgustingly good.

Absolutely nothing to see here.

You slowly peek from behind the shelf.

Cam is still talking.

The robber looks exhausted.

Mr. Lu looks like he wants to throw another coin.

Mr. Zy exhales, flicking ash from his cigarette, finally looking at you.

And oh, you hate how attractive he is.

You make direct eye contact.

He lifts an eyebrow.

You slowly retreat back behind the shelf.

Cam is getting confused.

“…(Y/N)? Why are you behind the ramen?”

“No reason,” you say, refusing to move.

“…Oka—WAIT, WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!”

Ah.

He just noticed Mr. Zy.

Cam, who has been obliviously delivering a TED Talk about justice to a man who was literally trying to rob the store, finally turns around—

And freezes.

His green eyes widen as he takes in the absolute hell that is Mr. Zy:

Tall.

Brooding.

Deep blue eyes 

Slightly grayish hair, mustache, bloodstained gloves, and cigarette smoke curling around him like he owns the city.

Clearly up to illegal shit.

"Whoa," Cam says, whispering like he just saw a celebrity. "You look like you've killed a guy."

You are actually going to die.

Mr. Zy?

This insufferable, audacious, dangerously attractive man?

He just slowly exhales smoke and stares.

Cam, with the confidence of a clueless golden retriever, steps forward.

"Hello, sir!" He offers a handshake, smiling brightly like a man who doesn’t know the concept of fear. "I'm Caramel Ellis! Junior police officer, Veygrove’s future hero!"

…DID HE JUST TELL A HITMAN HE’S A POLICE OFFICER?

Cam.

Caramel.

WHY. ARE. YOU. LIKE. THIS.

There is a long, long pause.

Mr. Zy slowly tilts his head, as if examining him.

Cam does not realize he is one wrong word away from death.

You, still pretending not to know this man, stare at the shelf, reconsidering every life decision that led you here.

Mr. Lu, who has already given up on life, lets out a tired sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Tch. Stupid kid."

Cam, not deterred in the slightest, continues. "This city is full of crime! But don't worry, I—"

"…You talk too much," Mr. Zy finally says.

Cam grins, looking proud. "People say that a lot!"

"…Mm." Mr. Zy flicks his cigarette. “Not a compliment.”

Cam laughs.

HE LAUGHS.

HE LAUGHED.

CAM.

STOP.

THIS MAN LITERALLY CAME IN HERE COVERED IN BLOOD.

"So! What's your name, sir?"

"...Zy."

"Cool name!" Cam nods. "So, uh, what do you do?"

Mr. Zy takes a slow drag of his cigarette. His deep blue eyes drip with vague amusement.

"...Freelance."

FREELANCE.

DID HE JUST CALL BEING A HITMAN ‘FREELANCE’???

Cam, who is actually buying this, nods enthusiastically. "Ohhh, cool! Like, consulting?"

"...Mm."

"Nice! I respect hard workers!"

Cam. PLEASE.

Mr. Lu, who has officially run out of patience, grumbles something in his native language and slams his hand on the counter.

"You go now," he tells Mr. Zy, eyes narrowing. "Or I throw coin again."

Mr. Zy tilts his head, looking almost amused. "...Still mad?"

Mr. Lu scoffs. "Hmph. You crazy. You get too much. Too much mess."

"Mm." Mr. Zy exhales smoke. “I get that a lot.”

"You lucky I no kill you before," Mr. Lu grumbles. "Back then, when you—"

"Lu."

The tone shift is instant.

The store feels colder.

Mr. Lu stops talking.

Cam blinks in confusion. "Huh?"

You stiffen.

Mr. Zy exhales smoke, eyes half-lidded, voice softer.

"Not now."

The weight in those two words.

Mr. Lu, after a long pause, clicks his tongue and looks away. "Tch. Whatever. You go now."

L O R E .

Cam has no idea what just happened.

You, however?

You just  saw a retired assassin and a legendary hitman have a whole-ass silent war with just eye contact.

And the worst part?

You still have to buy cat food.

 Professionalism is Hard When Your Boss is Hot and Bleeding 

Focus.

You are a professional. You are here to do a job. You are—

Oh, my God.

Why does he have to look like that?

Mr. Zy is leaning against the wall, blood dripping from a cut on his temple, a cigarette lazily resting between his lips. His coat is ruined—again, his shirt half unbuttoned, and his gun—Bangy, apparently, because this man has no shame— is half-holstered like he just doesn't care.

And the worst part?

He isn’t even reacting to the wound.

You, meanwhile, are on your knees, scrubbing blood out of the carpet, but it’s really hard to focus when there is a very attractive  man casually bleeding in your peripheral vision.

"You're staring, kid."

Your head snaps up.

"No, I’m not."

Mr. Zy tilts his head slightly, deep blue eyes peering down at you.

You immediately look away.

FOCUS.

THE BLOOD. THE CLEANING. NOT HIM.

Alright. Work mode.

Checklist:

✅ Blood. (So much. Too much. Did he bathe in it?)

✅ Bullet casings. (Three. Sloppy. He’s getting lazy.)

✅ Overturned chair. (…Why? What did the chair do?)

✅ Dead body. ( Not your problem. Boss Man said he’d “handle it.”)

✅ One (1) annoyingly hot, broody hitman standing in the corner, bleeding dramatically.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Ignore the fact that he exists.

First, the blood.

Blood is a menace. You’ve spent years perfecting stain removal.

Hydrogen peroxide for fresh stains. Baking soda paste for deep stains. Cold water, always cold water.

You drop to your knees, working fast.

Then.

A shadow.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oh.

He’s standing over you.

Watching.

Lurking.

Being hot and injured and annoying.

You inhale sharply through your nose.

"Sir," you say, "why are you hovering?"

He doesn't answer.

Because of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a drag of his cigarette, tilts his head slightly, and continues to stare.

You go back to scrubbing, trying not to think about how he smells like smoke, gunpowder, and some expensive cologne that is probably discontinued because God hates you.

Another silence.

Then, out of nowhere—

"Why?"

You freeze.

Blink.

"...Why what?"

Another pause.

He exhales smoke.

"You like cleaning?"

Oh my god.

"NO, ACTUALLY, I HATE IT," you snap, throwing your hands in the air. "I was BORN this way. I see mess, and my brain short-circuits. I have to clean it. It’s a DISEASE. Do you think I WANT to be like this? Do you think I wake up in the morning thinking, ‘Wow, I love being emotionally attached to my vacuum’? NO. But here I am. And you? You are making my life harder."

Mr. Zy blinks.

You continue, voice rising.

"Because not only do you suck at being discreet, but you also stand there all broody and bleeding and—hot. And it’s distracting. You are a distraction. I am trying to work, and you’re just—just being there. Existing. Breathing. Looking like that. With your stupid blue eyes and your stupid jawline and your stupid—everything."

Silence.

You exhale. Hands on your hips.

"Go sit somewhere else. I’m serious."

Mr. Zy just stares.

Like you just committed a war crime.

Like his brain is actively trying to process this information and failing.

You groan, marching to the sink. "At least put pressure on your wound, damn."

Another silence.

You glance back.

He is still staring at you.

Oh my God. Did you break him?

Oh.

He’s… sitting.

He actually listened.

You squint suspiciously. Did you just unlock some secret hitman command?

Because this is new.

He’s actually sitting in the chair you pointed at, silently pressing a cloth against his wound, still staring at you like you just told him the meaning of life.

"You know," you continue, scrubbing at the bloodstained floor, "I don’t get you. You’re supposed to be one of the most feared men in the city, but you suck at being a hitman."

Mr. Zy quirks a brow.

"Like, I get it. You kill people. Cool. But you make such a mess. Every single time. Blood? Everywhere. Bullet holes? Everywhere. One time, you literally kicked a guy through a window. Why. Why are you like this?"

A pause.

Then, in that deep, barely-there voice:

"Accident."

You stop scrubbing.

"…The window thing was an accident?"

A slow nod.

Your brain short-circuits.

"Oh my god, you are so bad at this," you whisper, horrified.

He doesn’t respond. Just tilts his head slightly, watching.

You go back to cleaning, yapping non-stop.

"I mean, I knew you weren’t like other hitmen, but still. You rage through jobs. No strategy, no subtlety—just pure unhinged energy. It’s impressive in a ‘Wow, he should be in therapy’ kind of way."

Another silence.

Then:

"Hm."

You glance up.

"What does ‘hm’ mean?"

Another long pause.

Then, in that deep, slow drawl:

"Not like others."

You frown. "That’s literally what I just said."

A longer silence.

He just stares.

Then, finally:

"…They fucking irritate me sometimes.."

Oh.

That was almost self-reflection.

Almost.

You blink.

"Uh. Yeah? No shit?"

He just exhales smoke, looking… strangely unbothered.

"So what? You just embrace this lifestyle? No part of you wants to be normal?"

Mr. Zy doesn’t answer immediately.

Then, finally:

"…Was normal once."

Okay. Lore drop.

You stare at him, waiting.

Nothing.

That’s it?

"Elaborate," you demand.

He doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he is annoying.

You groan, going back to cleaning. "Okay, broody man. Keep your tragic past to yourself. But next time? Can you at least try to be cleaner? Just a little?"

No response.

You glance up again.

Oh.

His eyes are half-lidded.

His posture is relaxed.

And—oh my god. He looks amused.

Your face burns.

You scowl.

"Don’t look at me like that."

He doesn’t stop.

You groan, dropping the bloody rag into a bag. "Ugh. Whatever. I’m done here. I’m going home."

A slow nod.

He stands.

Takes out a small wad of cash.

And—oh?

Another....

A pink apron.

…What.

You blink.

"…Why is it pink?"

Another pause.

Then:

"Had color options."

Your eye twitches.

"And you chose pink?"

A pause.

"Thought you'd like it."

Oh my god.

You groan, snatching it from his hands.

"......"

A pause.

Then:

"Mm."

And just like that—

He disappears.

…With no explanation.

No goodbye.

Just—gone.

You stand there, holding the pink apron, staring at the space where he used to be.

[clemeientene]

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 || Yan!Hitman x Gn!Reader

[ 01 ] ✦ 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒓. 𝒛𝒚

previous chapter: 00 [ prologue ]

There’s blood on the floor.

Not, like, a little blood. Not a neat, aesthetic, movie-style blood splatter where it’s all conveniently pooled in one dramatic spot. No.

This? This is a crime scene.

You’re talking arterial spray on the walls, smeared footprints on the hardwood, and what you’re pretty sure is a whole-ass finger lying casually by the rug.

And Mr. Zy?

He’s standing right in the middle of it, cool as ever, unbothered as he reloads his pistol—which has a name, by the way, because of course it does.

(You don’t know the name yet. But judging by the way he handles it, like it’s something precious, something personal—you can tell. This man has named his murder weapon.)

Meanwhile, you are trying very hard to focus on the absolute horror in front of you, instead of the fact that he smells ridiculously good.

Like, insultingly good.

Dark cologne, warm spice, a hint of gunpowder and expensive tobacco. It’s the kind of scent that lingers, that gets into your head, that makes you forget—

(No. Stop. Focus. There is a literal massacre in front of you. Get it together.)

You take a slow, steady breath. Survey the damage. There are three bodies—one on the couch (a gunshot to the temple), another slumped against the bar (throat slit clean through), and one poor bastard who looks like he had a lot of last words before he finally dropped.

Zy, for his part, barely even glances at them. Instead, he adjusts his sleeves—black gloves pulled snug—and finally acknowledges you.

Zy: "Clean it up."

…Huh.

No please? No wow, you’re so brave and skilled for taking on this morally questionable job?

Okay. You see how it is.

You cross your arms, careful not to step into a blood puddle.

You: "That’s a lot of mess for one person."

Zy doesn’t react. Just tilts his head slightly, deep blue eyes dragging over you in a slow, assessing look.

Zy: "You said you were good at cleaning."

You hold back a sigh.

Right. That was technically your fault. You did let your arrogance get the best of you when you accepted this job.

(You were trying to look professional. You may have accidentally come off as cocky. Oops.)

Still, as annoying as this situation is… you can’t exactly say no.

Because who is Mr. Zy?

Mr. Zy is the kind of man who walks into a room and owns it without speaking.

Mr. Zy is dangerous. 

And yet—he hired you.

Which means he sees something in you.

Maybe it’s just your efficiency. Maybe it’s the fact that you don’t panic when faced with carnage. Maybe he just thinks you’re quiet.

(Which is ironic, because you are not quiet. You are internally screaming. You just happen to be simping too hard to say anything out loud.)

Either way…

You roll your shoulders, exhale slowly, and step toward the bloodied crime scene.

You: "Fine. But I’m charging extra for the rug."

He raised a brow and sighed.

You pretend you don’t notice.

Because if you do?

You might start simping out loud.

Alright. Time to prove you’re the best damn cleaner this crime world has ever seen.

You roll up your sleeves, crack your knuckles, and get to work.

Step One: Assess the Damage

Before you touch anything, you scan the scene with a professional eye.

Three bodies → Means three sources of blood, each with different splatter patterns.

Blood types → Some fresh (still bright red, wet), some drying (turning darker, tacky).

Possible forensic evidence → Shoe prints, fingerprints on surfaces, stray hairs, bullet casings.

Carpet stains → The worst. Fibers soak up blood, making it hell to remove.

Wooden floor → Can stain if left too long, but smooth surfaces are easier to clean.

You need to work fast before coagulation sets in. Blood thickens quickly, and if it soaks into porous surfaces, it’s going to be a nightmare to remove.

Step Two: Eliminate the Evidence

You don’t just clean. You erase.

Gloves first. No leaving your own prints behind.

Remove the bodies. Blood is easier to deal with when it’s not actively leaking from a corpse. (You don’t do body disposal, but you drag them into the bathroom for now. Out of sight, out of mind.)

Bullet casings? Pick them up. Don’t leave behind anything that could be traced.

Step Three: The Blood Problem

→ For fresh blood (wet, bright red):

You dab, never rub. (Rubbing spreads it, pushing it deeper into the fibers.)

Hydrogen peroxide? A lifesaver. It breaks down the proteins in blood. You pour it on the stain, let it bubble, and then blot it up.

If no peroxide, a mix of cold water and salt works too. (Cold water keeps blood from setting. Never use hot—it cooks the proteins, making it permanent.)

→ For drying blood (darker, sticky):

A little more stubborn. You use baking soda and white vinegar, scrubbing gently with a brush to lift it off.

For the wood floor, you mix dish soap, a little ammonia, and cold water—wipe, let sit, wipe again.

→ For the carpet (the worst part):

You sprinkle cornstarch over the stain first. It absorbs the blood. Let it sit before vacuuming.

Then, hydrogen peroxide + dish soap solution—dab, scrub, repeat.

At some point, Mr. Zy leans against the wall, watching.

You pointedly ignore the fact that he’s standing there, arms crossed, cigarette between his fingers, smelling like murder and expensive cologne.

Focus.

Step Four: Finishing Touches

Wipe down every surface. Light switches, door handles, anything that might have prints.

Neutralize the air. Blood has a very distinct, metallic scent. You open windows, use a mix of vinegar and water to clear it out. (Lemon helps too, but not too much—you don’t want the place to smell suspiciously clean.)

Check for stray hairs, footprints, fibers. Even a single strand of hair can be used as DNA evidence. You make sure there’s nothing left behind.

Step Five: Final Inspection

You stand back. Take a slow, careful look.

The place is spotless. The air is fresh. If someone walked in right now, they wouldn’t suspect a thing.

You exhale.

Then turn to find Mr. Zy staring at you.

Not just staring—assessing.

His deep blue eyes drag over the room, then back to you.

Then—slowly—he takes a final drag of his cigarette, stubs it out, and says,

"Hah."

You blink.

Hah???

That’s it??

You just erased a whole-ass murder scene in record time, and all you get is a hah???

...Fine. Whatever. You don’t care. You’re a professional. You’re totally not affected by his approval or the way his voice sounds when he’s vaguely impressed.

Nope. Not at all.

Instead, he just… exhales, reaches into his coat pocket, and—

Wait.

What is he doing?

You watch as he pulls out a small, inconspicuous black notebook. Flips it open. Peels something off.

And then—without hesitation—slaps a sticker onto your hand.

…

…

You stare at it.

It’s a little holographic star. Gold. Shiny.

You stare at him.

He stares back. Calm. Unbothered. Like this is a completely normal thing to do after a triple homicide.

You: “…What is this.”

Zy: (Flatly.) “A sticker.”

You: “…Why.”

A pause. He tilts his head slightly—an almost imperceptible shift, but you catch it. A sign that he’s considering whether to elaborate or just let you suffer in silence.

Then, finally—smooth, casual—

Zy: “Incentives increase motivation.”

…

You. Are. Speechless.

This lethal, no-nonsense, feared-by-all, highly efficient hitman just rewarded you like a damn kindergarten teacher.

And the worst part?

He’s completely serious.

No sarcasm. No teasing. Just pure, matter-of-fact professionalism.

You glance down at the sticker again. The little gold star shines mockingly.

(No. No, we are not doing this. We are not being bribed by holographic stickers.)

You peel it off. Hand it back.

You: “I don’t need incentives.”

Zy, completely unfazed, peels another sticker from his notebook.

Slaps it onto your forehead.

…

…

"What the fu—"

You inhale deeply. Count to three. Ignore the way his lips just barely twitch—like he’s fighting off the smallest hint of amusement.

You narrow your eyes.

You: “…Do you actually believe in this or is this just for your own entertainment.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for another sticker.

You slap your hand over his wrist.

The silence is deafening.

Zy raises an eyebrow—mildly surprised, but not annoyed. His pulse under your fingers is steady. Calm.

Meanwhile, yours is doing acrobatics.

(Because, oh, right, you just grabbed this man’s wrist like you weren’t fully aware of how easily he could snap yours in half. Cool. Good job.)

But to your absolute horror, instead of pulling away, he just tilts his head slightly—watching you.

Waiting.

And you realize.

He’s waiting to see if you’ll actually stop him.

Which means—oh, no.

If you let go first, he wins.

If you don’t, you’ll be holding his wrist for an unreasonably long time.

…This is psychological crime.

…You are losing.

In the end, you let go.

He slowly peels another sticker.

You brace yourself.

And then—smoothly—he presses it onto the back of your hand.

…It’s a cat.

You give up.

And then—just when you think the night cannot get weirder—he speaks again.

Zy: “You’re useful.”

…

You blink.

Slowly lift your gaze.

You: “…Excuse me?”

He leans back slightly, exhaling. Not impatient, but like he already knows he’s about to have to explain himself.

His deep blue eyes flick to the room—spotless, pristine, like no crime ever happened.

Then back to you.

Zy: “You’re useful.” (Pause.) “Good at cleaning.”

You squint.

…There’s something more to that. Something he isn’t saying.

You take a moment, running his words through the Mr. Zy Translation Process.

"You’re useful." → Not just in a “you clean well” way. He means it in a way that suggests he genuinely values efficiency. Like he’s selective about who he works with.

"Good at cleaning." → Not just physically. He’s talking about how you handle things quietly. No loose ends, no evidence. You erase.

You tilt your head.

You: “You could’ve hired anyone.”

He exhales. Pulls out another cigarette, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it.

Then, casually—too casually—

Zy: “Tried.”

You freeze.

Wait.

Wait.

Tried?

Tried what? Hiring someone else? Working with someone else? What happened to them?

You glance around the empty, eerily silent room.

Oh.

OHHH.

You’re here because everyone else probably DIED.

(Great. Love that for you.)

You fold your arms, watching him.

You: “And?”

He exhales smoke. Flicks his lighter closed with a soft click.

Then, after a long pause—

Zy: “Too slow.”

…

You take a second to process.

Too slow.

Which means…

The others before you weren’t fast enough.

They probably hesitated.

Maybe they panicked. Maybe they questioned things. Maybe they tried to do things by the book.

(You? You saw a job opportunity and took it.)

You study him carefully.

Zy isn’t like other hitmen.

Most hitmen? They’re discreet. Precise. Clean.

Mr. Zy?

He works by pure rage.

There’s no elegance to his work. No careful, calculated executions.

No. He destroys.

Gunshots, point-blank.

Bodies slumped over, blood pooling fast.

Walls, stained red.

He doesn’t hold back. And because of that—because of how messy he is—he needs someone like you.

And he knows it.

…Huh.

That’s almost—dare you say it—flattering.

You hum, tapping your fingers against your arm.

You: “So, you’re telling me…” (Pause.) “That I got this job because I clean up after your temper tantrums?”

A beat of silence.

Zy doesn’t react at first. Just watches you, unreadable.

Then, so casually—

Zy: “…I get a bit too much.”

…

WHAT.

He just—admitted that?

You stare.

Because what the hell.

What the actual hell.

This man—who is feared by literally everyone—just confessed, in the most understated, deadpan way possible, that he knows he’s a bit unhinged.

You don’t know what to do with this information.

So, naturally, you say the first thing that comes to mind.

You: “Yeah, no shit.”

…You’re in danger.

You’ve barely processed the fact that Mr. Zy just admitted—in the most nonchalant way possible—that he’s a bit too much when—

Silence.

You blink. Look around.

…Wait.

Where—

Where the hell did he go?

The spot where he was standing? Empty. No lingering presence, no sound of footsteps, no door creaking.

Just. Gone.

Like a damn horror movie jump cut.

You: “…Hello?”

Nothing.

No response.

You spin around, half-expecting him to be lurking in the shadows. (Nothing.) Maybe standing at the window like some broody detective. (Still nothing.)

The only evidence he was ever here?

1. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. 2. The absolute carnage he left behind before you cleaned it. 3. And—oh.

Oh.

A small pile of neatly arranged items on the counter.

You take slow, cautious steps toward it, inspecting.

A stack of cash → Enough for a cab ride. (Efficient. No loose ends.)

Your paycheck for the day → You weren’t even expecting that yet. (Damn, is he a punctual employer? Who knew?)

A package → Brown paper, neatly folded, tied with string.

You narrow your eyes.

You’ve seen way too many crime dramas to open this carelessly. (What if it’s a severed hand? A tooth? A bloodstained letter with ominous handwriting?)

…But also, curiosity is a disease.

So, naturally, you untie the string.

Peel back the paper.

And find—

…

A PPE set.

Gloves. Mask. Safety goggles.

And an apron.

…

A pink apron.

You stare.

You process.

Then you squint so hard you could see into another dimension.

You: “…Seriously?”

Of all the colors.

Of all the choices.

He gave you a pink apron.

You glance around the empty, eerily silent room.

You know—deep in your soul—that this was intentional.

And the worst part?

You can’t even complain.

Because the bastard isn’t here anymore.

[clemeientene]

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 X 𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗

You were just a broke, unemployed, and slightly unhinged clean freak when he walked in—dangerous, brooding, and way too attractive for someone who casually bleeds on business cards. One job offer later, you're scrubbing blood off marble floors, disposing of evidence, and desperately trying not to simp over your new boss.

Because Mr. Zy? Oh, he’s not just your employer. He’s a feared hitman, a walking red flag, and possibly the reason your heart rate is now a health concern. Your boss, Mr. Zy, is the definition of bad idea in a good suit—mid-40s, dangerously competent, and carrying enough red flags to start a parade. He doesn’t just kill people; he does it...aesthetically, and unfortunately for your poor, thirsty brain, that’s kinda hot.

[table of contents]

✧ small note: if a chapter is blue, it means it’s already posted! 💙✨

[ 00 ] 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ⊹˚.⋆

[ 01 ] ✦ 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒓. 𝒛𝒚 [ 02 ] ✦ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 & 𝒚𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 [ 03 ] ✦ 𝒚𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓 [ 04 ] ✦ 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒚 [ 05 ] ✦ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 (𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚) [ 06 ] ✦ 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒔 (𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚) [ 07 ] ✦ 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 & 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒔 [ 08 ] ✦ 𝒄𝒂𝒇é 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 [ 09 ] ✦ 𝒉𝒚𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈...

[ 10 ] ✦ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 [ 11 ] ✦ 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 [ 12 ] ✦ 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒔 [ 13 ] ✦ 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 [ 14 ] ✦ 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒚 [ 15 ] ✦ 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 & 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒆—𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒔

[continuously being updated]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[clemeientene]

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 [Yan!Hitman x Gn!Reader] [PROLOGUE]

DISCLAIMERS, WARNINGS & AUTHOR’S VERY PROFESSIONAL NOTES

this story contains:

Murder. (Casual.)

Blood. (A lot of it.)

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.)

-Timeline? What’s That?-

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.

PROLOGUE...

You had dreams once.

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.

…And yet, here you are.

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.

And now?

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?

Bang.

Blood. Everywhere.

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:

Wow. He’s hot.

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.)

He turned to you.

Paused.

Narrowed his eyes, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers.

You swallowed.

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.

"Want a job?"

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 picked up the card.

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.

You: "What kind of job?"

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.

Zy: "Cleaning."

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.

Zy: "This."

Ah.

Ah.

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."

…Okay, what?

Your brain did a small, polite error 404 before catching up.

You: "Laundry."

Zy: "Dry cleaners can be unreliable."

You blinked.

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.

That was just a bonus.

You slipped the card into your pocket.

You: "When do I start?"

The slowest smirk. Zy stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and—without another word—walked past you, already expecting you to follow.

So.

That’s how you got hired by the most dangerous man in Veygrove.

Neat.