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tryingtimi · 1 year

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Hitman's Mistake

Would you look at that, I'm getting a prompt song like All Your Fault by YUGYEOM and I'm re-writing an old piece. It was a short one for a tragic love between a hitman and a woman anyway, so here's a Metalsea AU, my love. Also a reformed aesthetic.

It shouldn’t have ended like this.

The black leather’s embrace tightened around Cronyl’s hands as he adjusted his gloves with his teeth. He molded into the shadows of the dimly lit gallery, leaning onto the velvety, red walls.

His fingers carefully held his cigarette, its twirling smoke lost in the darkness. He rose it to his lips again to scratch the itch in his throat, eyes never leaving the elegant pair on the ground floor.

Syonehlia wore the same blood-red dress she had during their first meeting.

A bitter smile crept upon Cronyl’s face, dried blood tightening on his injured upper lip. He soundlessly knocked his head to the wall.

“The deal has been sealed,” she purred on her even tone. He could hear her crystal clear, even from such a distance. “It’s your employer’s signature, is it not?”

Confidence. Delicacy. Fire. She had it all. She always had it. From that first moment which lived inside Cornyl’s mind as a never wearing out filmstrip. That first moment he could recall it anytime.

The job he was entrusted with that night almost felt like an insult. Its easiness stood close to the line where Cronyl could have felt offended. A luxurious event where the high-ranked crowd drowned themselves in gluttonous pleasures, leaving the biggest kingpin of New Eval staying upstairs. Alone. Barely guarded.

Cronyl’s job wasn’t questioning the perfect chance, however. He stayed there nevertheless, boredom accompanying him only as he waited for his turn; so long before Syonehlia approached him. He didn’t notice her right away, but she successfully chained his attention to herself with her platinum locks, her crimson, skin-tight silk dress, and her sharp gaze in the end.

She wore the look of a lady with the eyes of a predator.

Cronyl could still point out all the places her lips traced around his body that night. He gave himself up to her without hesitation, right after he let the kingpin's head hit the table, his throat precisely sliced up in the adjacent room he used as an office. Syonehlia might have treasured resentment towards him for being the one who killed his uncle. Although, if she did, he never saw it on her.

He, the lone exterminator, gained his first, single weakness that night.

Cronyl’s half-smile still tugged the corner of his lips as he squatted down in the darkness. The remnants of his cigarette burned his fingers under the gloves as he inhaled more of the grey stench.

“It is, Mrs. Eval. I must assure you, however, that my employer never has seen these papers. The arrangement does not exist, therefore your demand is not executable.” Eldnar might have worn the same tuxedo as Cronyl, but he couldn’t dress up his manners as finely. He did not try to sound sheepish, even a bit.

And that did its job.

Syonehlia’s curving figure brightened under the chandelier’s prismatic light where her dress showed skin. She didn’t seem pleased with the answer, taking out a cigarette of her own. Her confidence never faltered, however.

It reminded Cronyl of how she was never against his profession. In fact, after every exhausting mission, he stumbled home, bloodied and injured; she gently took his hand and lured him into the bedroom, not taking no for an answer. Only one thing was more heated than their love-makings. Their arguments.

Cronyl absent-mindedly scoffed, grazing over a wound at his eyebrow with the back of his thumb. He got that from the time when she threw a plate at him. A silent breath of giggle bubbled up in his throat as he let his head hang between his shoulders. He pinched the cigarette stub between his fingers, twirled and inspected it, then, eventually stubbed out on the corps’ palm beside him.

He dragged this body upstairs, so he could seat it here. As if it was watching the scene that was happening. As if he was watching it.

The dead man’s long, red hair almost hid half of his ruined face. Cronyl stretched his gloved fingers, feeling the injuries on his knuckles still throbbing with a faint wave of pain. The same blood stained it as the one painting over the man’s face; Cronyl couldn’t tell if it was his or the man’s anymore. He carelessly started fistfights with the guards outside the building as well, but they never stood a chance. It easily could have been a mistake, still.

This physicality wasn’t foreign to Cronyl, in contrast with the situation. He didn’t know where everything went wrong.

Syonehlia knew what being with him meant. To be the lover of a hitman required eternal loyalty and the responsibility of understanding his profession. It meant never-ending danger. She still fought with him over it, not less fierce than a lion with its mate. Not once. Cronyl have sworn her he can protect her and that any of his workmates would do it for him too, but they both knew it was a half-truth. A lover was their own responsibility, and theirs only.

Cronyl would have risked it anytime, nonetheless.

Tension tightened his muscles as he clenched one of his fists and forcefully stretched his neck down. Then, he run his fingers through his long, black hair, not paying close attention to the discourse down there. Instead, he fixated on the redhead’s body, its peaceful face that carried no more satisfied, smug-looking expressions. His ice-cold skin burnt with a nauseating stench where he stubbed his cigarette. On that palm that Cronyl would have skinned it, preferably.

He wasn’t a butcher, however.

“You're the representative of your employer, Mr. Rowan. You must have the liberty to make the right decision on your own. I’m sure we can come to an agreement when my husband arrives back.” Syonehlia gracefully brought the cigarette between her lips, her eyes sparkling with authority and a glimpse of voluptuous might.

Cronyl set his jaw, his bone barely bearing the force without cracking. He stepped and turned on the dead Urien’s lifeless hand as he adjusted himself to reach into his hidden pocket on his jacket; the crunching sound of the movement getting lost in the vast space. Fine silk grazed his gloved fingers as he pulled out a golden bullet with two letters carved into it.

He was sitting in his armchair, wobbling on the edge of insobriety when he received this bullet. It was the night of their most ferocious quarrel. They went too far too quickly, the things they threw at each other heads were beyond painful. And they were well aware of it. She stormed out of the apartment the moment Cronyl uttered the words: “Go then, no one forced you to stay. It was your own choice.” The words echoed in Cronyl’s mind as a neverending record. Syonehlia made him weak, which his lack of self-control displayed perfectly. He never burst out like that. He never became such a twisted version of himself. He was raised as a hitman, he could never have afforded emotions like that. He was warned to be careful.

He did refuse their teachings, still.

He made a lethal mistake; let Syonehlia give him a soul. In that very moment, where she showed up hours later their argument, curled into his lap despite his impossibly tensed state, and pulled out the golden bullet with the letters of her name on it.

This is the pledge of my loyalty, she said. Keep it over your heart, but use it only one time, she said. And she vowed to him that time never comes.

Cronyl took out his revolver along with his silencer. He proficiently fitted at the weapon, not paying real attention. His focus was drawn back to Urien’s body, instead. At that hand, he saw him caress her thigh as she sat beside him at the meeting. At that red hair that was tugged back, when she laced her fingers into it.

Cronyl bit back an awful curse as his fingers slipped off of the revolver when the silencer clicked in place. He run his hand over his face, while he stood up, looking over Eldnar.

The man was staring right at him.

And so Cronyl grabbed the edge of the handrail, climbed out, then down on it with ease so he could hang by his free arm only. He lingered in place for a moment to stabilize his body before he let go of the stone and landed softly on his toes.

The thud he landed with sounded muffled enough to not gain Syonehlia’s attention. He lifted his revolver, his aim precise. Right in the middle of her pretty head.

Cronyl was ready and yet, he did the only thing he never should have done in his entire life.

Hesitated.

“Why?” he uttered, his voice raw and raspy. “Why, why, why?”

He could have repeated it a hundred times. He wanted to. Still, this was enough to make Syonehlia’s poised shoulders tense immediately.

She slowly turned to him, while Eldnar beside her calmly took a drag of his cigarette and quietly walked towards the window. Leaving the two of them by themselves.

Cronyl’s throat tightened, his eyes burning as wildfire when she finally faced him again. He couldn’t see shock or surprise in her gaze, really. Instead, he saw something else entirely.

She took a small breath.

“You’ve caged me.” She knew it. She needed to know.

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve made me paranoid,” she continued. She needed to know he killed Urien. Her husband.

“Lie.”

“I’ve become this, because of you!”

“Enough!” he screamed.

He screamed at her; he never has done that once and yet now, he screamed at her.

He wanted to yell why, again and again, and again. He heard these excuses thousands of times now, but none of it was good enough. He needed something else. She should have answered him properly. At last.

Yet, when he looked at her, Syonehlia was not about to say anything. She just stood there motionless, delicate dress hugging the body he knew better than his own, pale fingers that made his knees weak with a touch laced together and the gaze that bewitched him from the first moment sparkling with anything but resignation.

The trigger burnt under his finger, his tears soaking his face feeling unreal, and the woman he was facing foreign.

Cronyl almost flinched from the muffled sound of gunshot.

Syonehlia fell to the ground with a thud, no grace hidden in the motion. A whimper scratched the pit of his throat as he walked over her steadily. He pushed it back into his gut, however.

When he reached her, he squatted down and gently brushed her platinum hair out of her face. Blood as a tiny river began to stream out from the bullethole. The wedged-in gold ruined her skin, and the blood slowly painted her face from pale pearl to mellow pink.

Yet, she seemed so peaceful finally.

Cronyl caressed her cheek the same way he did the first night they spent together. Then, he stroked her hair and ultimately led his hand to the bullet. He didn’t close his eyes, nor turned his head towards the chandelier as he yanked the bullet out of her skin with one swift pull.

“My condolences,” Eldnar started, his voice flat, but honest. He walked into Cronyl’s peripheral vision, stopping far enough from the pooling blood on the carpet. “What’s next, boss?”

Cronyl brushed the blood off of the deformed bullet to reveal the letters. They remained readable.

He sighed, thinking, then pulled out the empty chain he wore around his neck. With adept movements, he attached the bullet to his necklace, strong enough to never lose it. He pulled on it to test its strength; it was solid and it fit perfectly.

Cronyl stood up, touching the bullet as it fell upon his chest.

He kept it as a reminder. A reminder of the time he had a soul. Of that, he gained it only so she could rip it out with excruciating pain. Of that, to love is a weakness. Of that, he was weak once.

Of that, a hitman couldn’t afford such mistakes.

Cronyl adjusted his jacket, his face itching from the long-dried blood. His chest hollowed, emptiness echoing inside. As it should have been.

He shot a stone-cold glance at Eldnar.

“The rest of them,” he stated, while his mind still wandered back into that moment for a grave second; the moment his eyes caught that blood-red dress.

It shouldn’t have ended like this.

#i might have gone very gorey and cruel so please keep that in mind #Project Metalsea #Metalsea AU #Cronyl Eldenwer #Syonehlia Dione #yeah um #Syon and Cronyl has a whacky almost realtionship in the original Metalsea story anways #also Eldnar is one of Cronyl's best pals as well #so that's why this one is funny in some sense #to see them like this #ALSO IDK #i like this but me insecurity is kicking in so hehehe #cuz #my sentences are looooong #whatever tho #hope you enjoy it anyway <3

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