Chapter Text
Suna hates international jobs.
Whenever he’s forced to head outside of Japan, the assignment loses half of its appeal. It’s not like he has anything against a weekend out of the country in a fancy hotel EJP Raijin pays for, and he doesn’t mind the burst of cultural experience that comes with being in a new place. But international jobs are a pain. There are more details to consider, the stakes are higher, and if Suna gets caught, there’s a slim chance of him wriggling out of trouble.
As he heads back to his hotel in the heart of Bogotá, Colombia, his dislike for these kinds of missions blossoms in full force. The panic behind him follows him the entire walk to the lobby, and short snippets of hurried Spanish reach his ears from the locals, confirming what he already knows. He’s not as fluent in Spanish as he is in other languages, but his ears discern the words for “death” and “shot” well enough.
It means he needs a cover. Fast.
The officers will be looking for any tourists that stick out on their own, and Suna certainly sticks out. As he pushes against the glass doors that lead into the lobby, he tucks his switchblade into the waistband of his pants, away from any prying eyes, and he turns as the chain of officers bursts through the entrance of the hotel.
Suna needs a cover. Now.
His gaze sweeps the expanse of the space, and right as an officer approaches him, catching onto the fact that Suna looks as lost as any tourist, he spots his way out right by the hotel bar.
There’s only one person that remains serene even as the rest of the hotel staff and tourists rush into a frenzy. He surveys the scene with a kind of lazy amusement, tipping back the rest of his drink as his dark hair falls into his eyes, and he’s handsome enough that Suna’s gaze lingers on him longer. He looks back at Suna like it’s a challenge, and Suna meets him head-on.
“Can I see your passport?” the officer asks. “Are you alone?”
“Hm?” Suna barely regards the officer.
“Are you alone?”
This time, Suna does turn to look at the officer. “No,” he says. “I’m not alone.”
“It’s no problem,” a new voice cuts in, and Suna feels the weight of an arm slung around his shoulder. As Suna tips his head back, he gets a closer look at the profile of the stranger from the bar. He’s even more mesmerizing up close, Suna decides. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the angles of his face are sharp and defined. Yes, he’s definitely handsome. “He’s with me.”
The officer seems to accept this explanation, giving them a wary nod before walking off to question more of the tourists hanging around. Suna doesn’t protest as the stranger guides him out of the lobby, his arm warm and steady around Suna’s shoulders even though he’s a few centimeters shorter, and he doesn’t loosen his grip until he ushers Suna into what must be his hotel room.
As he shuts the door behind them, Suna’s gaze roams across the room, noting the wrinkled bed sheets and half-filled suitcase thrown onto the floor. The curtains are drawn, allowing in the beam of sunlight from outside. There’s an empty tray of room service sitting on the table with hardly a crumb left behind. When Suna turns around, the stranger offers him what can only be described as a kind smile. It’s a rarity for Suna. No one ever offers him one of those without attempting to bargain for something more.
“I’m Osamu,” he murmurs, pressing his ear against the door to listen for footsteps on their floor. “Miya Osamu.”
“Osamu,” Suna echoes. He rests his head against the wooden frame of the door. “I’m Suna Rintarou.” A pause. “What are you doing in Colombia?”
“Travelin’,” Osamu says. “Never been here, and I’ve always wanted to come. I figured I’d like it. I didn’t know I’d end up in the middle of this situation.” He shrugs. “But we’ll get through it.” He jerks his chin at Suna. “What about you?”
“Work trip,” Suna answers, and it’s the closest to an honest response as he can give Osamu. He can’t reveal more than that. Not when his work relies on complete secrecy from anyone and everyone. No matter how kind and caring Osamu appears with his gentle smiles and his reassuring gaze, there are some rules that Suna cannot break. “It could’ve gone better than this.”
“Ah. So I take it yer work is over for the weekend, then?”
“Mmhmm.” Suna accomplished what he came to Colombia to do. Tomorrow evening, there’s a plane ticket headed home with his name on it, and within a few hours, there will be a substantial amount of money deposited into his bank account. All in a day’s work. “Why? What did you have in mind?”
An impish gleam reflects back at him.
The warm candlelights dance around the nighttime sky, reflecting off the rims of wine glasses and window panes, and upbeat music fills the air as several tourists spin around the circle with their partners. Their bright beams disguise whatever alarm they’d felt from the hysteria of today’s events. Spectators refraining from dancing sit along the edge in plastic chairs with cold beers in hand, reveling in the easy calm of the evening. The air is warm enough that Suna’s short-sleeve buttondown suffices, and he can rest his bare forearms against the small wooden table without goosebumps rising from the chill.
Beside him, Osamu tips himself back in his chair, an easy smile on his face as he adjusts the collar of his black T-shirt. His hair has become more ruffled over the past couple of hours, and it gives him a more carefree air. Suna wants to run his hands through it. Just once.
But he resists, instead keeping a firm grip around the metal of his Costeña beer. Their conversations until now have been minimal small talk at best. He learns that Osamu is a twin, that he’s originally from Hyogo, and that he works in a family Onigiri business. It’s a natural instinct to hone in on Osamu’s hands, but there are enough old scars littering them to assure Suna that Osamu has the hands of a cook. You don’t grow up in a kitchen without slicing your fingers apart a few times, and the evidence is there.
Suna doesn’t overshare either. He says that he has a sister, but doesn’t reveal her name. He states that he grew up in Aichi. He mentions his cover job as an employee at some hotshot company in their IT department. This garners him an impressed look, even if it’s not deserved. Suna does know his way around a computer, but he most certainly does not have an average desk job.
Every minute they spend together feels like an inevitable build-up to something else, and even though Suna can predict where they’re headed, the rational side of him—a voice sounding an awful lot like Washio’s—warns him not to get carried away. He’s not. He’s allowed to enjoy himself. And Suna is enjoying Osamu’s company a lot.
“Hey,” Osamu says, standing up and dusting off his cargo shorts. He holds out a hand to Suna, and Suna merely stares at it for a few seconds. “C’mon. Let’s dance.”
“Dance?” Suna’s eyebrows lift. He doesn’t exert more energy than he needs to in all aspects of his life, and that includes dancing with some stranger in a foreign country to a song he can’t translate. But—Osamu is looking at him expectantly, and he’s got nothing else to lose. “I guess.”
Suna allows Osamu to drag him out of his chair, their two beers discarded on the table, and Suna makes a mental note to dump out the rest later now that he’s left it behind. The dirt crunches beneath their shoes as they enter the center of the circle, and Osamu twists Suna around in a gentle spin before they face each other again and Suna rests his forearms on Osamu’s shoulders. Their faces are split apart by mere centimeters, their shared exhalations intermingling between, and from this close, Suna can pick apart every eyelash and crinkle to his face.
Suna does not consider himself adept at dancing at all, but he’s spent years perfecting his movements and coming across as graceful. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm with Osamu, who is more than content to let them sway there. His shoulders feel sturdy and firm beneath Suna, and his eyes take on a familiar gleam as Suna tangles his fingers behind the nape of Osamu’s neck.
“So. Suna.”
“You can call me Rin,” Suna murmurs, though he can’t explain why. He shouldn’t give away his given name for a stranger to use so easily. But it’s too late now. “I don’t care.”
“Rin,” Osamu amends. He looks down once to confirm that he’s not stepping on Suna’s toes.
When he lifts his head again, Suna wastes no time in pressing his mouth to Osamu’s. The shock dissolves quickly, and Osamu kisses him back with equal fervor, as if this is what this entire night has been working up to. In a way, it has. All of those stolen looks and lingering touches and teasing remarks have paved the path for this, and even though caution warns him to take a step back, Suna decides to be reckless. Just for one night.
Kissing Osamu is like breaking down a dam. It lowers their inhibitions more, and neither of them seem to hesitate when it comes to stealing a kiss as the mood comes and goes. They keep dancing, even as thunder rumbles overhead. They keep kissing, even as the rain starts pouring against the ground. They keep staring at each other, even as the droplets of water fall against their skin and soak their clothes.
As Suna sits in Osamu’s lap, kissing him in an almost lazy manner while the chair leans back and Osamu’s hands press into his spine, he decides that he’s going to marry Miya Osamu.
The parted curtains allow for a stream of sunlight to fall across the bed. It burns his vision enough that Suna peels his face off the pillow and lifts his head. His body is half-covered beneath the thin sheets, and his limbs sink with the kind of exhaustion that comes with a long night and the tension of a one-night stand. He turns his face to the side, but the other side of the bed is empty.
Suna frowns, his hand reaching out as if he can somehow force Osamu to appear out of his own will. His suitcase is still discarded on the floor, meaning he hasn’t left, but his absence sends a pang in Suna’s heart all the same. Just as Suna turns over, emitting a light sigh, the door to the room cracks open.
Osamu’s head pops through, and he brandishes a silver tray filled with two plates of eggs and toast. “Hey,” he greets Suna, ambling over. He put on sweatpants before heading out in search of room service, but he still has that early morning laziness about him. He sets the tray down in front of Suna. “How didja sleep?”
Suna offers Osamu a sleepy, sleepy smile. “Good.” He pushes himself into a sitting position, the sheets pooling around his waist. “How about you?”
“Can’t complain,” Osamu says. He pops a piece of crust into his mouth. “Although you are a chronic spreader. You smacked me in the face, like, twice while you dozed off.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
Osamu shrugs before nudging the tray towards Suna. Suna takes one slice of toast and folds it together, crushing it into the yellow yolk of one of the eggs until it runs over the white. He takes his first bite, and it’s exactly what his stomach is craving.
“When’s yer flight?” Osamu asks.
“Tonight,” Suna says. “At seven.”
“What a coincidence. So is mine.”
“It’s almost like we’re headed to the same place.” Suna rolls his eyes in a playful gesture. He rips apart the slice of bread again and sinks it back into the yolk. “What should we do until then?”
“Hm.” Osamu licks his thumb as a bit of egg catches onto it. He wipes his finger off on a napkin and smacks his lips. His throat jumps as he says, “We should get married.”
At that, Suna chokes on a crumb, and he coughs twice into his fist before his throat clears enough for him to be able to speak. He notices a glass of water swimming along his vision even as his eyes burn with unshed tears from the tightness in his throat, and he takes it from Osamu without a word, taking long gulps until the scratchiness fades. It isn’t until the glass is drained that he looks at Osamu again. Osamu stares back at him, wide-eyed, but Suna can’t tell if it’s because of his suggestion or out of concern for Suna nearly dying on him.
Even though Suna has come to terms with the fact that he’d like to marry Osamu, he can’t understand how this has already become a two-way street. Is Osamu that infatuated with him—or has his passion overrun any kind of rational thought? Because Suna is considering this proposal with a clear head, and even though it benefits him, he doubts Osamu gets the same kind of benefits from it.
He gets Suna. For better or for worse. Until death parts them.
It’s an odd deal to make after one exhilarating night together.
Whatever the case, his eyes bulge even more when Suna says, “Yeah, we should.”
five years later
Marriage is nothing more than a sheet of paper, after all. For all of their devotion and interest in each other over the course of one fateful night in Colombia, it fades. Like most emotions, passion doesn’t last. Suna isn’t surprised by this. When he was younger, he used to watch old romantic films and wonder why those couples ruled by passion seemed to stick together even though they made each other miserable. He doesn’t need that. If he was looking for love, he’d want something steadier. More constant. He’d want a love that stuck out over the high waves of the ocean, even as the waves ebbed back and forth. Even when despair took him under, so long as he could see the tip of that love, he could persevere.
Of course, Suna isn’t looking for love—not with Osamu, anyway. His relationship with Osamu is built on pretenses and formalities, even if Osamu is not aware of this fact. Osamu is convenient. He’s there. He’s present. Sure, he’s constant, but Suna doesn’t spend his time looking out over the waves for Osamu.
If Suna is being completely honest, he can’t understand why Osamu hasn’t ditched him after five years of nothing. They both have steady jobs and incomes. They don’t have kids together. There’s nothing binding them other than a sheet of paper. Even their sex life is mediocre at best, and Suna can’t remember the last time Osamu gave him a genuine smile. Suna knows he’s dragging Osamu beneath the surface, and there are moments when he wishes Osamu would just quit. He awaits the day Osamu decides he’s had enough of Suna and walks out the door. But after five years, that day hasn’t come. And this sham marriage is too convenient for Suna to call it quits.
When people study his background a little closer, they discover a basic description: Suna Rintarou, twenty-seven, employee of EJP Raijin, husband of Miya Osamu. It’s better than being known as Suna Rintarou, twenty-seven, professional assassin.
For all intents and purposes, Osamu guides any wandering stares away from Suna. He provides the cover Suna needs. On his own, Suna stands out. He’s worth looking into. By Osamu’s side, he becomes more approachable. There’s no reason to look further into the life of a twenty-seven-year-old man who lives a peaceful existence with his husband in their family home in Hyogo.
There’s nothing extraordinary about Suna Rintarou. At least, not so long as he has Miya Osamu attached to him.
There’s always a bit of lingering regret whenever Suna regards Osamu in this way. Truthfully, Osamu has done nothing wrong—except fall in love with Suna. He’s kind. He’s respectful. He cooks well. He’s handsome. Osamu is a catch.
If Suna was someone else, he might look for love with Osamu.
But he’s not.
That means that, as he arrives home that evening, he hides his pistol beneath the bottom of the passenger seat, puts on a pleasant smile, and enters through the front door. He chucks off his shoes and pulls on his slippers as the waft of pork and broccoli reaches him from the kitchen. He can spot Osamu through the door standing at the counter, cooking the pork at the stove, his apron tied around his waist.
“Hi, Osamu,” Suna greets, as monotone as ever. He hopes Osamu has gotten used to it by now. He doesn’t have the energy to act more upbeat than he’d like to.
“Hi, Rin,” Osamu says before the sizzle against the pan cuts him off. His level of concentration in the kitchen is unmatched, and his brow furrows as he flips one of the pieces of pork and waits for it to cook before looking over at Suna again. “How was work?”
“Work was fine,” Suna says. “Boring.” He waits at the edge of the kitchen, in the threshold between the kitchen and the dining area, and he braces his shoulder against the frame in the doorway. “How about you?”
“Fine. Borin’.”
“Right.”
“Can you set the table real quick? This is almost done.”
“Sure.” Suna knows this is all part and parcel of sharing a home with someone else, but it’s the bland manner in which Osamu asks him to do it that digs beneath his skin. There’s never a please or a thank you tacked on to anything Suna does. This isn’t a real marriage to Suna, but the carelessness in which Osamu treats him frustrates him nonetheless. “I can.”
Osamu nods. He falls silent as he returns his attention back to the meat in front of him, and Suna steps around him to grab the dishes and glasses. It’s petty of him, but he makes sure he hovers in Osamu’s personal space for longer than necessary as he collects all of the plates to carry them over to the table. He knows Osamu can’t stand when people linger while he’s working in the kitchen. The kitchen is Osamu’s sacred space. Even Suna gets yelled at for messing around with the organization of the cabinets or hiding Osamu’s recipes out of sight.
As he brings the dishes over to the table, he hears Osamu grunt as Suna walks into the next room over. It doesn’t take long after that before Osamu brings out their meal, and he heaps a generous serving onto Suna’s plate before feeding himself. Suna tries not to think about the fact that Osamu always does this: he always serves Suna first, no matter how hungry he is. If he thinks about it too much, the guilt fills Suna’s stomach instead.
“Thanks for the food,” Suna murmurs, bowing his head.
Their meal proceeds in silence. Suna wouldn’t mind so much if it happened to be a comfortable silence. But this is the furthest thing from that. The tension sits in the air, thick and heavy, and it seeps into every corner of the room until it’s suffocating. They hardly ever make eye contact, and the only sounds that break the stillness are their soft chewing and the clatter of dishes.
Suna doesn’t know how to talk to Osamu. Half the time, he’s not sure he even wants to. Osamu doesn’t seem to want to talk to him. His gaze slides past Suna far too often.
“Rin,” Osamu says, and Suna jolts at the direct address. “Can ya pass the wine?”
Suna’s eyes flick between Osamu, then to the bottle of wine that sits in the middle of the table, then back to Osamu. The bottle is at an equal distance from either of them. It’s as close to Osamu as it is to him. So why is Osamu asking him to lean over the table and push it over to him?
Suna dislikes being ignored by Osamu, but being bothered for trivial things like this is somehow worse.
“It’s in the middle of the table, Osamu,” he says instead, returning his attention to his dish. He picks up a clump of rice as he looks up, only to find Osamu’s eyebrow twitching. “What?”
“Nothin’,” Osamu says. He leans forward to grab the bottle. “Nothin’ at all.”
“Okay.”
“You didn’t forget, didja?”
“No, I didn’t forget,” Suna says before thinking about what it is he’s supposed to remember. “What?”
“Akaashi-san and Bokuto-san are havin’ the entire neighborhood over tomorrow at seven.” Osamu pours the wine into his glass until it nears the top. When he puts the bottle back onto the table, it’s closer to him. “You said you could make it.”
Suna resists the urge to let his head drop onto the table. That’s another thing about marriage. If he was in a happy one, he’d forgo all of these ridiculous gatherings with their neighbors. They’re the most dull evenings he experiences, dragging on through boring conversations with men more interested in discussing their taxes than anything of interest, and he has to sit through them all. Even if he’s sure that Osamu hates these gatherings as much as he does, Osamu still pesters him about them each time the invitation is extended. Suna can’t skip on them even if he tries.
“I can make it,” Suna says. “I’ll be there.”
“At seven.”
“At seven. I’ll be there at seven, Osamu.”
Osamu tips his glass back. “Good.”
Neither of them say anything else for the rest of the dinner.
It’s strange having to act in his own home. Behind his own walls, Suna should feel safe and secure, free to act without limits or restrictions, but he supposes it’s his own fault for finding himself in this mess. Komori had advised him not to go through with it, but like most advice Komori gives him, it went unheeded. He and Osamu had married within a month of their return from Colombia. Suna still isn’t used to the ring on his finger.
But even if the ring feels foreign to him, he has to play the part. When Osamu returns home from work the next evening, Suna stands in the middle of the kitchen waiting for him. He knows that what he’s done is likely to infuriate Osamu, and even though he knows Osamu doesn’t deserve it, Suna can’t help it. He’s wanted to do this for so long.
Suna listens to the tear of the tires outside, and he waits for the crunch of Osamu’s footsteps outside their front door before he turns his head to the side. His lips quirk up as Osamu steps through the doorway, his Onigiri Miya cap fitted on his head.
“Rin,” Osamu says by way of greeting.
“Hi,” Suna says. “How was work?”
“Work was fine.” It’s the usual response. He seems to register Suna’s position in the middle of the kitchen in his next breath, and his eyes narrow. “What are ya doin’?”
“Just inspecting the cabinets.” Suna’s smile stretches even wider, even as Osamu takes hurried steps over to where he stands to inspect what Suna is referring to. “What do you think?”
Suna has wanted to change the overall design of the kitchen for years, but as Suna never uses the room, all executive decisions have been left to Osamu. It’s more like Osamu has refused to listen to Suna’s feedback on a space Suna never occupies—which is, admittedly, fair. It so happens that Suna operates on spite, and so, while Osamu was at work today, he arranged for the cabinets to be switched out for new ones. The handles have been altered too, and it leaves the kitchen looking more updated than it was. As it is, Osamu takes in the changes with a pinched expression.
“It’s, uh,” Osamu says, “different.”
“Yes. Why would I change our cabinet doors for identical ones?”
Osamu shrugs before resting his hand on the one nearest to him. He pulls it open, affirming that the contents inside are the same, before shutting it again. With a noticeable wince, he says, “It looks good, Rin.”
“Mmhmm,” Suna hums. “I agree.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. There’s an hour before they’re meant to meet at Bokuto and Akaashi’s place, and he has an appointment to make beforehand. “I have somewhere to go. I’ll be back in a little less than an hour.”
Osamu doesn’t answer him right away. His look is morphing into one of horror the longer he stares at the cabinets. “Uh, now? We’re supposed to—”
“I know,” Suna says. “I’ll be on time. It’s a work emergency.”
Osamu nods, but his mind is elsewhere. He’s probably wondering when he can take a day off in order to have the cabinet doors replaced again. If he was more present, he might have interrogated Suna further. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Suna says. He slips out of the kitchen and heads towards the stairs. “I’ll be back.”
Suna really has to stop agreeing to these kinds of jobs on a tight schedule. He doesn’t like being rushed. In fact, whenever someone pushes him to pick up the pace, he’s more inclined to take his time out of pettiness. He’d rather operate based on his own jurisdiction. Unfortunately, he forgot about dinner at Bokuto’s and Akaashi’s when he signed off on this contract, and there’s no way he can back out of it now.
His gaze flicks up toward the rearview mirror as the taxi driver continues on ahead, but the street behind them is deserted. The headlights brighten the path in front, and the crunch of the tires grates against his ear as he runs through what is meant to happen.
Even if he’s running on a time limit, this is a smooth operation. He’s done this a million times before, and it usually goes as he imagines it should. He’s done the necessary research in advance, and he knows his cover. He’s decided not to bring any weapons inside of the hotel building to make it easier to bypass security, which relieves him of unnecessary hassle. He doesn’t need a weapon. After all, he’s the deadliest person in the room—armed or not. All he has to do is sneak inside as an employee tasked with room service, and he’s in the clear.
His target is Oomi Tarou, and he’s going to be dead by the end of the night.
The hotel is located twenty minutes from his house. That leaves him with less than twenty minutes to kill the man before making it back in time for the neighborhood gathering. If he’s late, Osamu will skin him alive. With a sigh, Suna checks the time on the clock once before setting a timer on his phone.
“It’s just up ahead,” the driver says, pointing at the building to their right. Suna doesn’t even study it too deeply before humming his acknowledgement. He’s seen the hotel at least ten times from multiple angles in the report he was given. It’s nothing new.
“You can drop me off right here,” Suna says. He brings one hand up to adjust the collar to his white, pressed button-down: the exact kind all of the hotel employees wear if they’re not in the kitchen or behind the front desk. “I can walk from here.”
“Are you sure? I can stop right in front—”
“I’m sure.” Suna rifles through his wallet and draws out the correct amount of yen—and then some—before handing it off to the driver. Once the car pulls to a full stop, Suna pops the side door and clambers out. “Thanks.”
Suna slams the door shut and watches the taxi drive off before stepping onto the sidewalk. He tilts his head back to get the full scope of the building. The hotel towers several stories high, and it has an esteemed reputation of housing many of the successful businessmen who make stops in Hyogo on their work trips.
He has looked over the blueprints for each floor, and he copied an employee’s ID card the last time he came here to scout out the location. As long as he maintains his cool, there is very little that can go wrong. Suna marches through the parking lot, purposely avoiding the cameras’ line of vision, and finds the employees’ entrance on the side. He taps the key card against the reader, and he holds his breath until it dings, granting him access.
The door is heavy as Suna pulls it open, but once he’s inside, he lets loose a sigh of relief. He keeps walking, following the path he traced out for himself the moment he was assigned to this mission. There’s an elevator on the right as he turns, but he ignores it in favor of the stairs. He’s hoping the stairs will give him a sense of anonymity if they’re empty, and sure enough, as he climbs up to the fourth level, he doesn’t spot another person.
Another employee breezes past him on the fourth level, but Suna keeps his gaze focused ahead. This hotel has a multitude of employees working for it. It means he goes unnoticed, even by the fellow staff, who dismiss him as a newcomer. He stalks forward, looking sideways at the numbers printed on the doors. 410, 411, 412.
Suna stops in front of room 413. Unlucky number thirteen, he thinks, as he double-checks his timer on his phone. He has fifteen minutes left. It feels like ominous foreboding that Oomi should have seen coming, but irony is a bitch. He tucks his phone away, and he raps his knuckles against the door.
Steeling himself with a steady breath, Suna waits for twenty seconds before it swings open, and the sheer amount of photographs he looked at before prepares him for the exact moment Oomi appears on the other side. He’s older than Suna by ten years, more built and imposing, but he lacks the height on Suna. He’s still wearing a gray suit, though it’s rumpled now, as if he’s just arrived back to his room from a long day at the office. His button-down is drawn out of his slacks, and his feet are bare except for his socks.
Oomi scratches at his beard as his gaze drags up and down Suna. “Hello,” he says, polite to a fault. “How may I help you?”
“Hello,” Suna says with a pleasant smile. “I heard a complaint from our last occupant of this hotel room that the pressure of the water in the shower wasn’t up to our usual standards, and I wanted to come in and inspect for myself—if that’s alright.”
“Oh.” Oomi lowers his arm. “I wasn’t aware. I mean, the water seems fine to me.”
“You don’t mind if I come in and double-check?”
“No, I suppose not.” Oomi takes a step back, and Suna bypasses him to enter the hotel room fully.
It’s as luxurious as the outside promises. The king-sized bed takes up most of the room, the comforter thick and inviting, and the wide windows showcase an excellent view from the top of Hyogo. A suitcase sits near the foot of the bed, half-opened and discarded, and there’s an empty plate on his dresser from the room service he called for dinner.
Suna steps into the bathroom. He notices Oomi take a seat back on his bed out of the edge of his vision, but he doesn’t regard him further as he makes a show of turning on the water and waving around the showerhead. Oomi can’t see him from where he sits, especially as he whips out his phone and starts going through his messages. Suna waits a few seconds, but his timer has thirteen minutes remaining, and he’d like to get back home with some time to spare.
Suna cranks off the water and tosses the showerhead back inside, flicking the remaining droplets off into the sink. “I think it’s alright,” he calls out.
“Yeah?”
“Not sure what the previous occupant was complaining about.” Suna steps out, and he finds Oomi seated in the same spot as before, his phone held in front of him. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Nope,” Oomi says, his eyes glued to the screen. It makes Suna’s job easier, sure.
“How was your dinner?”
“It was delicious, thanks.” There’s a note of dismissiveness to his voice now, and Suna can tell that Oomi is growing tired of having his privacy infringed upon. Suna wipes his hand down on the front of his shirt. He’d rather his palms be completely dry for this. “I have no complaints.”
“Cool.” Suna steps closer, and as his shoes fall into Oomi’s line of vision, he lifts his head, regarding Suna with an odd look. “I hope it was a good final meal.”
Before Oomi can respond, Suna’s hands surge forward, seize Oomi by the neck, and snap it. The resounding crack echoes through the room, and even after all of this time, it manages to startle Suna. There’s a certain power that comes with the knowledge that you can kill someone with your bare hands alone, and it frightens him, too. Oomi topples over onto the covers, and Suna takes out his phone for a second to check the timer.
He’s got eight minutes left. It’ll take him four to exit the building and find a taxi. But he should arrive back home with four minutes to spare. Osamu has nothing to complain about. Suna snaps a picture on his phone to send off to his company to confirm that his side of the contract has been fulfilled before slipping out of the room like nothing happened.
The incessant chatter digs beneath his skin until Suna clenches his teeth together. It’s bad enough having to come out to these gatherings, but it’s made worse when he has to make small talk. Inunaki Shion has been babbling to him about work for the last ten minutes, and no amount of alcohol has made him any more interesting.
He’s got to hand it to Bokuto and Akaashi. Somehow, they managed to get most of their neighbors involved in their little get-together. The dinner was appetizing enough, but it didn’t compare to Osamu’s food, although Suna would never admit that to his face. The worst part of the evening by far is the post-dinner conversations exchanged in a fit of pleasantries. He can’t back out of them until Osamu chooses to because, for better or for worse, he decided to marry Osamu. That includes putting up with their public image.
As Inunaki starts ranting about his new co-worker, Suna continues nodding while taking down his wine in large gulps. It isn’t until the glass is drained that he excuses himself to refill it. He savors the respite for what it is, and he glides into the kitchen, sliding past the rest of the happy couples and overly friendly individuals that keep patting his shoulders and asking how he’s been.
He murdered a man tonight, thanks for asking.
Suna recovers the bottle and pours himself a generous amount of red wine. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Osamu in the other room, speaking with Akaashi and Bokuto. Though his eyes are glazed over, he keeps engaging them with questions that ensure the conversation maintains its momentum, and Suna envies him for that. If Suna is bored, it’s difficult for him to muster up the energy to pretend otherwise. His disinterest projects itself in a wide radius.
Over Bokuto’s shoulder, Osamu spots him in the kitchen, and his eyebrows lift as he winks at Suna. The gesture feels out-of-place since Suna can’t recall the last time he and Osamu actually flirted for the sake of it. He can’t remember the last time they had sex , for crying out loud. The passion has been sucked out of their relationship entirely, replaced with obvious indifference and petty maneuvers in a poor attempt to get the other to call it quits first.
If anyone is going to call it quits, it’ll be Osamu. This is much too convenient for Suna to walk out on.
Suna’s look is deadpan as he makes eye contact with Osamu while taking a long sip of wine. In the next second, Osamu laughs, but Suna can’t tell if it’s due to something Bokuto has said or because of Suna’s expression. Whatever the case, Suna scrunches his nose and takes his leave.
For some reason, listening to Inunaki complain about his co-worker is more appealing than looking at Osamu and feeling a stir in his stomach.
A few hours later, the alcohol still burns through his bloodstream, and even the stifling air between him and Osamu in the car ride back home is preferable to spending another hour there. His mind feels muddled as he climbs out of the passenger side and traces the path up to their front door. Osamu walks behind him, his movements more grounded—but only just. Neither of them say anything as they enter and head up the stairs, and the process of undressing and preparing for bed is spent in silence, too.
It’s like all of the air rushes out of his lungs as Suna collapses on his side of the bed. The mattress sinks beneath him and continues to jostle as Osamu sits down on the other side before swinging his legs up. The springs creak and groan with the additional weight, and Suna feels Osamu turn onto his back as the two of them stare up at the ceiling.
Almost a foot of space separates them. Even though the covers are pulled up to their waists, neither of them attempts to take more of their fair share for now. It’s as respectful as sharing a bed with a stranger. It’s painfully distant for what is meant to be a loving, committed marriage.
Suna rests his hands on his stomach and lets his eyelids flutter shut. Osamu will start snoring soon enough, and he’d rather drift off before having to bear witness to the sounds of Osamu’s breathing echoing through their bedroom, loud enough that it prevents Suna from falling asleep too.
“What didja think?” Osamu’s voice pierces through the tension. He sounds drowsy, yet his speech is coherent enough that Suna knows he’ll remember having this conversation. “Of tonight?”
Suna isn’t drunk enough to deal with an existential crisis on Osamu’s part. “What do you mean? It’s the same as every other time Bokuto-san and Akaashi-san invite us over.”
“So you didn’t enjoy it.”
“I didn’t say that.” Suna would never say that out loud, no matter how true it is. And it is very true. “It was fine.”
Osamu grunts before turning onto his side. Suna can’t tell which direction he’s rolled until he senses Osamu’s breath fanning him. “Should we have sex?”
This time, Suna peels one eye open. “What? Now?” He peers up at Osamu, who braces himself on his elbow as he stares down at Suna. “Do you want to?”
“I dunno,” Osamu says. “I can’t remember the last time we did it.”
Suna draws the covers up to his chin. The thin fabric tickles his bare skin, and he uses the time to think about it himself. He can’t remember either. It had to be months ago. “I can’t remember either. Damn. Must mean it wasn’t that memorable then.”
At this, Osamu scowls, and Suna delights in the clear displeasure his features take on. He can’t help it. Osamu makes it so easy to get beneath his skin. He never seems to push back, even though Suna is sure there’s more hidden beneath his calm demeanor. Suna witnesses it all the time whenever Osamu is in the same proximity as his twin brother, Atsumu. But around Suna, no matter how much Suna pries or teases, Osamu doesn’t budge for some unknown reason. Suna can’t tell if it’s because only Atsumu has the power to irritate Osamu like that—or if it has to do with who Suna is.
Osamu drops his body weight completely onto the mattress, and it shakes enough that the ripples go right through him. “I think we should change the cabinets,” Osamu says instead.
“Why?” Suna shuts his eyes again. “I think they look nice. You don’t think they look nice?”
Osamu makes a choked noise before emitting a deep sigh. For a second, Suna thinks he’s got him—hook, line, and sinker. This is how that facade cracks. This is when Osamu snaps. But as quickly as the cracks appear, they disappear in the next second. “I mean, they’re alright.”
“It’s fine if you hate them, Osamu.” Suna knows Osamu hates them. He wants to hear Osamu admit it.
“I don’t hate them.”
“Then why do you want to change them?”
A pause. “I just don’t think they suit our kitchen,” Osamu says. “Since I’m the one that actually cooks for us, I feel like I should get to have an opinion.”
“You can have an opinion.”
“Okay. I’m sayin’ we should change the cabinets.”
“So you hate them.”
“Rin.” The exasperation comes through in his voice, and a smile tugs at Suna’s lips. He’s glad the only sliver of light in the room comes from the moonlight outside, otherwise Osamu would see his satisfaction. “I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Mmm.” Suna rolls onto his side so that he faces the wall instead of Osamu. Even if his body is attuned to Osamu’s presence at his back, he can ignore him easier this way. “We can talk about it tomorrow. I’m tired, Osamu. I want to sleep.”
It sounds like Osamu might argue further, but after a few seconds, the mattress creaks as he settles onto his back again. “Fine,” he says. There’s a pause. “Good night, Rin.”
The words roll off his tongue. “Good night, Osamu.”
He does mean it.
Suna’s cover story is that he’s married to Miya Osamu and works in the IT department of a company in Hyogo. The reality is that he’s—somewhat—married to Miya Osamu and he’s an assassin that works for a contract assassination firm under the name of EJP Raijin. Every day, when Osamu thinks that he spends his waking hours helping his co-workers fix bugs on their computers and sifting through emails, Suna is investigating. He hates going into jobs blind.
He prefers to take his time dismantling all security beforehand. He considers every obstacle, he determines the weapon of choice, and he reviews the contract multiple times before signing off. When he’s at the office, he confers with his co-workers on how best to proceed with each case. Not everyone at the company specializes in contract hits, though everyone does know physical defense. There are employees that specialize with weapon distribution, contract review, and security analysis behind the scenes, and without the extra help, his work would be a lot more difficult.
As Suna steps through the full-body scanner that leads into the firm, the robotic voice reads out his identification. Suna Rintarou. Twenty-seven. Born in Aichi. Lives in Hyogo. Kill count: 310. The machine whirs as the scan finishes above his head, and the voice continues on. Contact Komori Motoya for the next assignment.
The entrance room grows dark as the voice comes to a full stop, and Suna taps his ID card against the final reader before he opens the door into the agency. At ten in the morning, it’s packed, employees milling around as they look to each other for advice or converse on cases, and he recognizes most faces as he strides over to Komori’s desk in the far right corner of the open space.
Suna considers Komori his closest friend at the firm. The two of them started working around the same time, even though Komori doesn’t head out into the field often, preferring to wreak havoc behind-the-scenes, and after several years of familiarizing with the other, it’s safe to say that the two of them are as close as can be. As close as anyone can be knowing the kind of profession they have, at least.
Komori matches Suna in his chaotic tendencies, but Suna lacks the same level of enthusiasm Komori has on a day-to-day basis. On mornings like today, Suna wishes he could steal some of that energy to borrow before he passes out standing up. He’s not hungover, but after his late night, the last thing he wants to do is think clearly.
Komori looks up when Suna places a palm flat against his desk, and his lips curve into a wide beam too bright for the time it is. “Hey, Suna,” Komori greets him. Suna sinks into the chair opposite Komori’s desk. “How are you?”
“Tired,” Suna answers, because this is the one place he gets to be honest. “Osamu dragged me to some neighborhood get-together last night, and it was fucking draining.”
Komori nods in faux sympathy. In reality, Komori is the one that warned Suna not to get married in the first place because it brought up too many other obligations that he thought Suna wasn’t ready for. In hindsight, Komori had a point, but Suna didn’t heed his advice.
“How about you?” Suna jerks his head in Komori’s direction. “How are you?”
“I’m cool. I got iced coffee before work.” He holds up the plastic cup, shaking it a bit. “It’s a good day.” He spins around in his chair and picks up a folder before setting it down in front of Suna. He taps the front with one finger. “Anyway, I’ve got your next assignment.”
“Lovely,” Suna says, reaching for the folder. Even though the contents are neat and tidy, the actual folder is thicker than he’s used to. Normally, he’ll receive a few pages of information and photographs. The contract sits at the end of the rest of the documents. This time, it appears like Suna has more background information to go through than he’s used to. “Shit. Why is there so much?”
“This is a bit more complicated,” Komori explains. “It shouldn’t be out of your realm of expertise, but there’s a small window in which you can get this done. That’s why it’s very detailed.”
“Very detailed.” Suna unfolds the folder, and a sturdy packet of documents nearly spring at him. The cover page has the target written in large, bold font. Riseki Heisuke. As Suna skips through the introduction page to the assignment, a few items pop out at him.
Riseki is a year younger than Suna—not that it matters. He has a skittish air about him based on the first profile picture that comes up. He’s a federal government prisoner about to be transferred in the next few days. It is imperative that the hit happens during the transfer period, and there’s an exact location in which it must take place according to Suna’s superiors.
The introduction barely scrapes the surface of this assignment, and the reminder is enough to make his gut twist. He’ll have to study this folder thoroughly over the next two days. It requires much more concentration and focus than he’d prefer. He doesn’t like devoting so much attention to one assignment, but considering the scope, demand, and time constraint, it’s inevitable that this job requires more work on his part. It’ll require more heavy-duty weaponry, too. He can’t use his pure strength this time around.
“Anything else?” Suna asks, shutting the folder. “Or can I go study this?”
Komori shakes his head. “No. You’re free to go.”
“Cool.” Suna stands up. His brain calculates how much time he’ll need to review all of the information before he can jump into the planning process. He has two days at most to study it all. “Then I’ll go to my desk.”
“One last thing.”
“Hm?”
“It’s probable that we’re not the only ones involved in this hit,” Komori warns. “You might find our competition out in the field. I don’t doubt you can handle it. I’m merely warning you in advance.” Komori winces a bit. “This is a tough job. I’ve gone over a lot of the details myself already if you want to hash it over verbally. This is kind of out of your usual comfort zone, but I don’t think they would have assigned it to you if they didn’t need you to do it right.”
“Right.” This is most certainly out of his comfort zone. The time constraint alone adds a new kind of pressure he’s unfamiliar with. The fact that he’ll need more powerful weapons sets him on edge, too. He hates that. He prefers to go in with smaller ones that can be concealed with ease, and knives are his favorite. The knowledge that he can’t rely on his familiar tactics forces him into a tight spot. “I’ll probably come back over and discuss it with you when I’m done reading then.”
“That’s fine,” Komori says. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Nice.” Suna licks his lips and tries not to shy away from the weight of the folder in his hand. “I’ll talk to you later then, Komori.”
Komori lifts a hand as Suna walks in the direction of his desk. “Good luck, Suna.”
Luck. He’ll need it this time around.
It takes Suna a day to review the details of the folder. It takes him another to confer with Komori and request the weapons that the job will require. It leaves him with one final day to wait before the scheduled transfer, and he teems with anticipation for the full twenty-four hour period. Normally, he would be able to disguise his nerves from Osamu. He considers himself a decent actor, and he can lie with a straight face after many years of practice, but the bundle of anxiety that twists inside him manifests through episodes of spacing out while Osamu is speaking to him.
It’s noticeable enough that he feels like he owes Osamu some kind of explanation. “I’m going on a work trip this weekend,” he says during their dinner. Osamu barely lifts his head to acknowledge him. “I’ll be back on Sunday.”
Osamu nods. “Alright.”
“That’s why I’ve been nervous.” His mouth runs of its own accord, even though Osamu has already accepted his announcement. “It’s a bigger deal than usual.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Rin.” Osamu picks up his bowl to scoop a greater portion of rice into his mouth. “You always do.”
“Mmm.” This would be the case any other time. Not this time. This time, Suna requires more than his raw skills to succeed. His head hurts even thinking about the folder that sits hidden in a secret compartment in this house, far from Osamu’s prying eyes. The explicit details within have been a nightmare to review. “What are your plans this weekend?”
“Goin’ to see Tsumu.”
“Ah.”
It’s not like Suna dislikes Osamu’s twin brother. It’s more that he regards Atsumu with a certain kind of indifference. Atsumu is too loud and too bold in the ways Osamu is not. It’s true that—to an outsider—Osamu comes across as the more polite, quiet twin brother. Osamu makes an effort to appear presentable in front of others; Atsumu doesn’t care less whether others like him or not. That extends towards Suna.
Osamu hardly ever invites Suna to tag along whenever he and Atsumu meet up, and Suna is sure that’s because Atsumu has never quite warmed up to him. He thinks Suna is shady, according to a conversation Suna eavesdropped upon shortly after their return to Japan from Colombia, and Suna wouldn’t be surprised if Atsumu has been urging Osamu to break up with him all these years. Atsumu certainly makes his opinion of Suna clear.
In this case, it’s this—you’re not good enough for my brother. Suna doesn’t disagree with this statement.
“Are you staying with him?” Suna asks after taking another sip of his wine.
“Just for a day,” Osamu says. “I’ll prolly be back on Sunday, too.”
“Good. Then you won’t miss me.”
“Nope.” For the first time since Suna mentioned his plans, Osamu raises his head. He regards Suna closely with a pinched expression. “Rin.”
Suna raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Are you cheatin’ on me?”
“What?” It’s such a ridiculous notion that Suna can’t even play off the question with a straight face. The incredulity is written into his features, and his eyebrows scrunch together. “Why would you ask that?”
Osamu slumps in place. “So the answer is no?”
“No. Obviously not, Osamu.” To be fair, it would be the simple answer for their detachment: one or both parties are involved with someone else. Now that he thinks about it, he wonders why he’s never pondered the thought of Osamu cheating on him. It wouldn’t matter much, since this marriage is all for show, but it would irritate Suna a bit. Just a bit. “Why? Are you cheating on me?”
Osamu flinches like he’s been slapped. “No,” he cries out. The bowl nearly slips from his hand. “Why would I do that, Rin?”
“I don’t know! Why would you ask me if I’m cheating? That’s a weird question.”
“I was just wonderin’,” Osamu says. He readjusts his grip on the bowl and continues eating, not meeting Suna’s eye. “You’re all fidgety, and I know you said it’s cuz of yer trip, but I was wonderin’.” A pause. “Why would I cheat on ya, Rin?”
“I don’t know.” For all of the normal reasons others do it, Suna supposes. Whatever people are looking for in a fulfilling marriage isn’t found in theirs. That’s for sure. This can barely be called a relationship. It’s more like a convenient rental agreement. “Why would I cheat on you ?”
“I don’t know. You’re bored of me or somethin’. I don’t know.”
“I’m not bored of you. I hate this conversation.”
“So do I.”
“Then let’s stop talking about it.” Suna shakes his head a little, like the action can rid himself of all the lingering questions in his mind. “I’m not bored of you, Osamu.” This lie burns on his tongue as he says it, and the guilt he tries his best to keep at bay burns stronger tonight.
Osamu lets out an exhausted sigh. “I’m not bored of you either.”
“Fantastic. We’re not bored of each other—like all good married couples.”
Osamu snorts at this, and the ludicrous declaration makes Suna laugh a little, too.
The sand dunes in Tottori are not where Suna expects to find himself on a Saturday morning, but his work takes him to unexpected places at the most inconvenient of times. The sand rises high around him before falling into sharp dips, and the warm temperature almost chokes him. The sun burns high at the edge of the sky, and the sunscreen he put on before heading out melts against his skin. Even though Suna only has on a plain T-shirt and cargo shorts, the thin layers still seem like too much.
Suna keeps reminding himself to keep his breathing steady, take periodic sips of water, and double-check all of his equipment. He’s set up the land mines himself, and his computer sits beside him, ensuring that the countdown runs smoothly once the target enters the zone. Until then, it’s a waiting game. Suna would prefer to wait in an air-conditioned room inside, but he can’t afford to be picky now. Not when there’s so much riding on this hit.
He grabs hold of the binoculars again and peers out across the horizon. The dunes are deserted for once—the government has cleared out tourists for the remote transport—but it casts an eerie atmosphere over what should be a packed site. With a sigh, Suna flicks his sunglasses down over his eyes and sits back in the sand.
There are fifteen minutes until the scheduled transport time. All he can do is wait.
“How bored are you right now, Suna?” a tinny voice asks through the earpiece.
“So bored,” Suna responds. Komori really loves pushing his buttons, even when the stakes are high. Suna can’t even tell whether it’s for the purpose of getting him to relax or whether it’s instinctual at this point. “This sucks. It’s too hot. I’m going to have sand everywhere for days. ”
Komori lets out a loud cackle that grates against Suna’s eardrums. “Sorry about that,” he says once he’s recovered. “There’s nothing that can be done about that, unfortunately. Make sure your beloved husband doesn’t find sand in your hair—or he might have some questions.”
“Eh.” Suna doubts Osamu would notice. “He thinks I’m cheating on him.”
“Really? Why?”
“What do you mean why?” Suna rests his binoculars against his knees. “We barely speak, we barely kiss, we never have sex. We hardly acknowledge each other when we’re in the same room. His logic makes sense.”
“See? This is exactly why I told you not to get married.”
“Shove it, Komori.” Suna raises a hand to readjust the earpiece, but it holds firmly. Washio is efficient—as always. “It’s a good cover.”
“Sure, but it’s too much work.” A pause. “Don’t you agree?”
Sometimes, it is too much work. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel worth it at all. But then there will be times when the sun seems to rise, and Suna gets a quick glimpse at a genuine smile from Osamu or he notices the little acts of affection that come and go with time. Those fleeting moments make his relationship feel effortless.
But—those moments don’t last. In fact, Suna hardly gets the chance to enjoy them. Komori is probably right: this is too much work.
Instead of acknowledging this, Suna murmurs, “Don’t be jealous because my husband is a catch.”
Komori sputters. “Psh! I’ll have you know that I could be married if I wanted to be! I could!”
As Komori continues ranting, a distant noise cuts through the stillness, and Suna sits up. It sounds more and more like the crunch of tires against the sand, but that can’t be it. The transfer still has seven minutes before it’s time for Suna to make his move. His eyes flick over to the face of his wristwatch, and the numbers confirm what he already knows.
Suna crawls up onto the low hill he’s hidden behind, and his eyes narrow as he scans the scene, trying to spot the source of the noise. He finds it a second later in the form of a dark spot hurtling through one of the dips of the dunes, right where the transfer vehicle is scheduled to drive through—and worse, right where Suna has set up his land mines.
The buggy hurtles across the sand, the speakers raised to the highest possible volume on some obnoxious radio station, and the driver behind the wheel takes his time spinning in circles in the bowl of the dune. From this distance, Suna can’t make out his face. Even if he could, it’s likely that the driver has some covering to keep his face hidden from the sun. It has to be some tourist that has slipped through the boundaries, just like Suna has.
The difference now is that this tourist is a civilian, and if he’s not careful, he’ll set off one of the mines before it’s ready to blow.
“What is that?” Komori stops his rant as he sees what Suna is seeing in front of him on his own computer screen, miles away from where Suna sits, tucked away in the EJP Raijin office. “Who is that?”
“Fuck if I know.” Suna’s eyes narrow further right as the buggy crashes through one of the charges. Suna lunges for his computer the second it happens. “Fuck.”
“What?” Komori demands. “Why is the countdown starting?”
“Because”—Suna disables the countdown in one fluid motion—“the idiot set off the charges. Fucking asshole.”
“You’ve got it, right?” There’s a degree of urgency to Komori’s voice that wasn’t present before. Suna can’t blame him. They’re used to small hiccups in their plans, but the interference of outsiders always ruin the system they devise in advance. If the outsider is an innocent civilian, there is no justifying the extra bloodshed. Suna has to do whatever he can to stop it. There is the other layer that this mission is more important than most—and now, Suna has an unpredictable element to handle on top of the stifling pressure he already feels. “The countdown stopped.”
“Yeah,” Suna says, shoving his computer aside. “We’re good.”
“Good.”
Suna retrieves his binoculars from where he threw them onto the ground in a rush, and he brings them up to his eyes again. The buggy has rolled to a full stop, and the driver clambers out of the seat. He knocks the side of the car twice before adjusting the cap that sits on his head and ambling a few feet away. For a second, Suna assumes that will be it. He’ll look up at the dune, take a few pictures, and then drive off. What happens next makes his jaw drop.
“Uh,” Komori says. “Is he actually—”
“Yeah,” Suna says, trying to suppress the groan that rises out of him. “He’s taking a piss.”
“Brilliant.” There are a few clacks of a keyboard over the line. “I’m detecting another vehicle in the field by the way.”
“Fuck.” Suna peels his face away from the binoculars to check the time. Sure enough, the transfer vehicle is a minute away. When he brings them back up to his face, he spots the vehicle far in the distance, but with each passing second, it grows closer and closer. The driver sits in the middle of the path, but he appears unfazed as he finishes up and returns to his buggy. “Okay. I think the driver is leaving.”
“Uh, Suna?”
“What?”
“I’m picking up a weapon signature.”
“What?” Suna repeats. His first instinct is to whip his head around. There might be the chance that he’s missed someone far away in the hub of confusion with the civilian. But when he looks back, the driver is walking away from his buggy, heaving a large weapon on his shoulder. Civilians don’t carry those kinds of weapons. “Fuck. Not a civilian!”
Suna reaches back behind him for his sniper. He has one shot to get this right before the driver becomes aware of his presence. If he messes it up, he loses the advantage he has. As he lines it up, he reminds himself of this one fact: he never screws up.
The tag shoots through the air, nailing the driver in the chest so hard that he launches backwards, and he holds a hand against where Suna struck. He’s not dead, considering Suna didn’t even use a bullet. But he’ll be knocked out of the action for a few seconds from the shock of it all. Suna only needs a few seconds.
“The target is in the zone,” Komori says, his voice falling into that flat tone it takes on when it gets serious. “Countdown is starting.”
“Good.”
Suna flicks his gaze over, and a jolt runs through him when he realizes that the driver has already recovered and is standing up. More than that, his weapon is aimed right at Suna.
“Fuck!” Suna cries out as he dives away, and he hears the shot taken a moment later.
Behind him, the sand erupts once the hit makes its mark, and the force of the explosion sends him flying a few feet forward. He turns and tumbles onto the sand, the exposed skin of his palms grasping for purchase, and his ears ring. He can’t even hear Komori call out his name as he rolls, a ragged gasp tearing out of him.
Before Suna has the chance to recover, there’s a faint beep that makes him freeze. Suna draws in a sharp intake of breath, and the land mines all go off, the explosions occurring in quick succession. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see it. He can feel it in the reverberations that course through the earth. It makes his hands shake and his legs wobble, but he forces himself to pry his eyes apart through the cloud of dust and crawl over to the edge.
The smoke that twists in the air is all he can see for the next few seconds. But he doesn’t need to see the physical evidence: he can hear the crunch of tires pulling away. He’s failed.
“Suna.”
Suna holds a hand to his ear. He’s surprised that it’s not bleeding from the force of the explosion. “I know.” His voice comes out in a rasp, and it hurts to speak. “I know. Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Komori agrees. There’s a pause. “It’s not your fault. We’ll fix this.”
It is his fault. Suna should have caught onto the driver’s suspicious movements sooner. Now, Riseki Heisuke lives another day, and the mission is a failure. He had to succeed. But Suna didn’t.
“I would move if I were you,” Komori says. “Leave your shit. I’m picking up on some motion coming toward you.” He lets out a sigh. “I don’t think the explosions killed off the competition.”
That’s the icing on top of the cake. Suna might feel better walking away with one kill. As it stands, he’s failed on multiple accounts. He pushes himself into a kneeling position before casting one last look at the smoke. He needs to move. He knows this. But the failure that hits him in the gut is so present it’s paralyzing.
“Suna.”
“I’m going. I’m going.” Suna forces himself to his feet, and he starts running.
It isn’t a warm welcome that greets him back at EJP Raijin. Even though Suna’s skin is littered with cuts and bruises, his ears ring, and his hands tremble, all he finds are wide-eyed stares when he returns. The only person that musters up some sympathy is Komori, who follows behind him with a sweater and a bottle of water.
“Komori, I tagged him,” Suna repeats. It’s all he’s said since he’s arrived. It’s better than the alternative. I failed. “You need to look it up. We can find him.”
“It’s not a matter of can,” Komori says, easing Suna into the chair opposite his desk. Suna’s hand wraps around the bottle of water, and he allows Komori to drop the sweater into his lap before relaxing in the seat. “You have to find this guy. He’s fucked up your assignment. You have to kill him.”
“I know, I know. I will, but—”
“Suna.” His voice is grave, and his pallor is deathlike, like he’s seen some kind of ghost. Behind him, his printer starts whirring, and Komori’s attention is diverted as he rolls back in his chair over to where a fresh sheet of paper prints out. He holds it out to Suna. “Here.”
“What is this?” Suna brings the sheet closer to his face, but at the first couple of words, he understands exactly what it is. His stomach sinks further. This invoice doesn’t come from Komori. It’s from his superiors.
YOU HAVE FORTY-EIGHT HOURS TO ELIMINATE YOUR NEW TARGET
“Fuck.” Suna’s free hand tightens into a fist. He never showcases his anger so openly. He’s learned to keep his emotions on a tight leash. He’s not like Osamu—open and brazen with how he feels most of the time. The mask he wears comes from years of practice, but because of this one upset, it’s slipping. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Komori says, nodding along. His mouth twists. “You know what you have to do. Right, Suna?”
“I wish I fucking didn’t.” Suna sighs as he slaps himself in the face with the sheet of paper several times. As the invoice falls into his lap, he unfurls his fingers and returns his gaze to Komori, waiting expectantly for Suna to recover from his momentary bout of frustration. “Okay. I’m good. Let’s find out who this fucker is.”
Even with the various angles that the footage provides, it’s hard to get a decent reading on the driver. With sunglasses obscuring his eyes and a bandana covering the lower half of his face, any attempts to profile him fall short, and after an hour of staring at the screen, Suna starts getting restless. He forces Washio out of the chair to go over the footage himself.
Suna rewinds the video up until the point where the driver climbs out of the buggy. Even though it’s disgusting to replay considering what happens next, he has no choice. He’s not going in blind. He rewinds it, then replays it, then does it again. This becomes a continuous cycle while Suna leans in closer to the screen. There’s something eerie about watching the driver seconds before destruction, but there’s something more to it. There’s something Suna is missing.
“Suna.”
There’s a hint of irritation in his name that tells Suna that this isn’t the first time Komori has called his name. His gaze slides past the screen through the cracks in the monitors to where Komori sits. He has a phone braced against his ear, but his attention is spared for Suna.
“It’s Osamu,” Komori says, gesturing towards the phone. “He wants to know what time you’re coming home for dinner tonight.”
Suna looks back at the footage. Something clicks, and it’s abrupt enough that all of the air squeezes out of his lungs. He forces himself to take a calming breath as he says, “Tell him I’ll be home for dinner at seven.”