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Yi Sang wasn't one to shirk away from duty; he was good at what he did, and he was more than willing to perform. As long as a balance was struck, there wasn't much he had to complain about. But this…
He sighed, shrugging his jacket higher onto his shoulders. The night wind grew only more biting as the days dragged on into winter, yet here he was walking through the streets with just a jacket for cover. It felt even colder, knowing what his current mission was. The higher-ups had a twisted sense of humor, there was no doubt about it… they claimed this tasteless assignment was because he was their best sword, but more likely than not, they felt the need to test his loyalty to the Blade Lineage name.
He let his mind roam away from these treasonous thoughts, instead dimly wondering if he'd run into a Sweeper here, at the edge of the Backstreets. Regardless, he would find his target soon, if the information he was given was correct. He frowned, checking the map clutched in his left hand again. There was something a little different between the map and the street in front of him. Suddenly, realization dawned on him: there were a couple of missing houses. Presumably these were the piles of rubble that now stood in their place. Another sigh of exasperation freed itself from his lips; this was on par for the person he was looking for, but still, you would hope time would have tempered her... artistic sensibilities, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Cautiously, he stepped around through the ruins, chasing the winding trail of destruction that seemed to stretch endlessly before him.
Deeper and deeper the trail ran, until the combination of looming buildings and drooping overhangs blocked out all semblances of moonlight. He grunted in annoyance, pulling out the old greasy lighter he still kept in his jacket pocket, and continued on. By the firelight, the splashes of red along the shredded buildings seemed just a bit more sinister, the waves of crimson dancing mischievously alongside him. He gripped the scabbard of his sword a little tighter.
Fifteen minutes passed without incident, and the chaos even seemed to die down at this junction. Yi Sang was mildly confused, as he knew from experience that there was no calming down once she became excited; that was the reason she was usually assigned a partner, as it were. So where did she go? Pulling himself onto yet another huge piece of rubble, he looked down at the clearing below. Yi Sang's breath stuttered.
With her back to an audience of one, she was standing with her eyes closed, reveling in the "beauty" that surrounded her. Circles of corpses surrounded her, reckless sprays of blood marking the circumference; Yi Sang could see that each corpse had been sliced open at a careful angle to achieve the unique lines of splatter. In the very center, in a breathtaking spotlight composed purely of moonlight, was the target themselves, dangling precariously from a bent construction pole by the veins in their wrists, their hands deconstructed into splayed flesh and skin. The massacre seemed to ripple away from it, as if each circle of death was a chain reaction started by the macabre centerpiece. Ryoshu's eyes snapped towards Yi Sang when he crept forward another step, unconsciously attempting to get a better view of the scene.
"Didn't think I'd see you this far north." She closed her eyes and stretched nonchalantly, back turned towards Yi Sang once again.
"Beauty is a magnet, drawing the attention of those who despair of its existence." He intoned, now standing next to her in front of the hanging corpse. The trickle of blood was a bit distasteful, but the handiwork was otherwise clean and precise. As expected of Ryoshu.
"...Yeah, I should've guessed the OMICOBA would've made good on his promise. Damn. It was just too good of an opportunity, you know?" Ryoshu tilted her head, hands shaking as she brought an unlit cigarette to her lips. She swore as she tried to light it with her blood-clogged lighter, to no avail. Silently, Yi Sang offered her his own lighter, which she accepted with a grunt of thanks.
"...Old man in charge of being annoying?" Yi Sang finally ventured, after a moment of breathing in the cheap tobacco smoke. Ryoshu grinned, flicking some ash off the cigarette.
"Got it in one. I'm right, aren't I?" Yi Sang nodded without responding. Ryoshu sighed, pulling off her outer jacket. It was flecked with a bit of blood at the bottom, but presumably Ryoshu hadn't noticed, as she carefully folded the article of clothing and placed it delicately on an unbloodied piece of rubble.
"This wasn't what I had in mind when I offered to redecorate your intestines, but I won't pass on a chance to try out a new medium; maybe high-quality materials will lead to a more beautiful composition?" She readied her sword, staring straight at Yi Sang, who still hadn't moved from his position in front of the hanging corpse.
"The quality of materials used in a piece is certainly bound to affect the final result, but the strength of the artist's convictions is what ultimately determines the beauty of a masterpiece. Yours wavers, and so does your brush." Yi Sang's hand remained at his side, his blade untouched. After a tense moment, Ryoshu sighed and sat back onto the floor, pulling the cigarette from her mouth to release another stream of smoke.
"This took me forever to pull together, since climbing rubble with a corpse is about as fun as SOMOS. I wouldn't have even bothered, but this place was just perfect. The lighting, the rig, the location-"
"A man rising above the others, only to collapse under the weight of his own ambition and greed, destroying those around him." Ryoshu paused at the unexpected interpretation of her art, before a shimmering ember seemed to light up her dark eyes. She laughed wordlessly, offering Yi Sang her cigarette. Though it'd been years since he'd last taken a drag, he took the tobacco now, watching his own stream of smoke join hers in the cloudless midnight sky.
"It's been a while since I even felt the urge to just create. I was wondering why, today of all days, I was so moved by the moonlight... but I must've known that my art would reach my audience tonight." The words flowed roughly out of her, stoking the spark in her eyes into a blazing inferno.
"Yi Sang, I'm the final stroke needed for this piece. I'll give you my brush, and you'll finish it for me." Yi Sang closed his eyes at the firm declaration, taking another drag.
"Art is only beautiful to those with open eyes." He replied quietly. She nodded lightly.
"And yours are the only ones that can see, no matter what I've created in the last fifteen years. Fifteen years... since I last saw you. I'm fucking tired, Yi Sang. If they want one of our heads by the morning, let it be mine. I'll live on as a legend and you'll live on as the first and only witness of my masterpiece." Slowly, Yi Sang nodded as well. She was correct, of course; there was nothing he could do in the face of the Syndicate.
There was... nothing he could do.
"Wherever the river takes you, Ryoshu, may we meet again under the same beautiful sky."
When the moon finally disappeared under the weight of sunlight, Yi Sang stirred. He'd been kneeling in front of the latest addition to the art exhibition, motionless. The sudden jerking motion nearly caused him to drop the knife he had been clutching, white-knuckled, through the night. Even now, it burned in the spots where a different pair of hands had callously gripped it while carving patterns into her canvas, but after a moment of contemplation, Yi Sang dismissed it as another unwelcome delusion from his sleep-addled mind.
Yi Sang picked up the jacket she had so carefully set aside, laying it gently over her peaceful features. It felt just as soft as it did the day he had bought it for her; a celebratory gift, since they'd both been hired as fresh-faced fixers for a big time Syndicate after years of hard work. A stain of regret spread across his chest as he guiltily recalled the state of the once beautiful lighter she had offered him in exchange, once upon a time. He moved to place the knife next to her as well, but the imaginary flames seemed to have welded the flesh of his palm to the handle. He stared helplessly at his hand before sighing one last time. He slid the knife onto his belt and left the now abandoned gallery without looking back.