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In stories from older members of the Family, assassination missions were always full of chaos and incredible moments, where things suddenly appeared at hand, where you eventually had to escape from a burning skyscraper, and where along the way you meet world celebrities who pay attention to you and show interest. Bianchi's very first mission ends up with her hit being stolen from her.
She didn't know that this was even possible.
Firearms were not her favorite weapon, but in her plan, which she had been developing for a week so as not to embarrass herself on her first mission, they looked the best. Only when Bianchi hid, having first put on the silencer and removed the safety, did the deafening sound of a shot sound. And it was definitely not her who shot. And it was deafening solely because it was unexpected, it was even scary, and it was right in the head, so that the target did not have time to make a sound, and the people around him began to panic while dark blood spilled along the corridor, spreading contains fragments of a snow-white skull and pieces of brains. Her own mother called roses with such a shade of petals “blood and milk.”
Bianchi ignominiously escaped from her first mission, glad that she had escaped at all and not been among those trapped with the one who decided to steal her hit, and when her father mockingly asked if she wanted to return home, since such a thing had happened matter, he was cursed in a rather rude manner, because in general you should be more happy that your daughter, in principle, returned from the first task. The way she got goosebumps at the memory of that moment, even after a whole day in a rented apartment in a small house in the deep South of Italy, opposite the South where her Family lived, made her wonder if it was the feeling of approaching death, as written in many books and films that she watched in her teens and sighed, dreaming of a life at least somewhat interesting, like the heroines on the screen.
Bianchi was not upset by her first failure; she was not raised to be a perfectionist and was ready to try again and again. It’s hard to be upset by troubles when nothing in life has come easy to you: you just get used to gradually overcoming them. Her first hit was stolen by Reborn — the best hitman of this century — rumors about her case spread almost instantly, and Bianca did not feel humiliated. Losing to the strongest is not a shame. It was a shame to even fight against Bianchi, who had no experience, but Reborn, unfamiliar and distant, could not be blamed. Well, the orders matched. It happens. Maybe this Andrea pissed off more people than he thought.
But when she goes out for her second order - and a similar situation occurs, Bianchi, despite the chills down her spine, has no strength to be afraid of, because it is outrageous!
— It was mine! — She comes around the corner, stepping over obvious corpses, still warm, but no longer breathing. The brain has not yet had time to comprehend death, so it continues to complete the illusion that their shoulders rise in the rhythm of their breaths. She knows that Reborn is in front of her — who doesn’t know how the strongest look like? But she did not expect such a difference in height, when black eyes would look at her from head to toe without interest, but definitely in bewilderment. — This... This was my hit, — Bianchi adds, stuttering at the moment when the woman in front of her raises the trigger, as it turns out, in order to hide it in a holster under her jacket.
— Well, obviously, it was my hit too. I don't work for free. And I don’t hunt for newcomers.
Bianchi cannot stand such a meeting, cursing herself for showing her frustration and her fear, Reborn leaves without continuing the conversation, and her father still offers to return home, because so many people are ready to compete for her hand. Bianchi doesn't like the idea — just as she didn't before — and instead of coming home and being a submissive trophy wife, she just hopes it's all a coincidence. Twice is still possible, right? But they don’t talk about it — that Reborn sometimes comes and takes away other people’s orders — simply because everyone is afraid to admit it. Or ashamed. Could she be lying? Therefore, after allowing herself to be sad for a couple of days, lying in bed and coming to terms with the fact that she won’t get anything here for nothing, Bianchi takes on a new task and makes a plan where the damn firearm is put aside. Perhaps she just needs to use her creativity rather than try to speed up the process, because she still lacks speed anyway.
Bianchi watches the target fall as the poison begins to take effect, takes out her phone to take a photo (otherwise they won’t believe that he was the first), and finally rejoices. It was just a coincidence. She's not hopeless, and no one is...
She is grabbed by the scruff, pushing by the neck of her T-shirt into the red brick wall.
— What the fuck are you doing?
Bianchi takes a breath, because sneaking up silently is dishonest, then takes another, because she will be the target of Reborn's displeasure, and this is her, this is her irritated face, this is her hand that could have closed around her neck, but did not, this is scary, and only then does she answer:
— It's my hit.
— Obviously, this is my hit too, — the situation repeats itself, but Bianchi rehearsed the scripts for this dialogue at night, and now she’s ready for it, damn it!
— I was the first. You are late. So this is just my order. I don't work for free.
She hopes she sounds cool enough, but not so cool that she pisses her off. Reborn clicks his tongue and lets her go, and it takes suddenly too much strength for Bianchi to try to stay on her feet.
— Why do you even show up where I work? — she asks, turning her head towards the people surrounding her body. Bianchi, who was about to ask this question herself, looks on in stupor. Then she thinks: well, she probably didn’t lie, why should the best killer be interested in coming to her, a new girl, and ruining her life. On the other hand, she, Bianchi herself, in other eyes could have the following motivation: to steal her hits and sully her ideal reputation. But Bianchi didn’t really have such motivation. She just wanted to show herself and her Family that she was capable of more than what had been offered to her all her life.
— I have a hit, here, — Bianchi shows the phone screen with the task and the correspondence under it. Reborn squints doubtfully, but tilts her head to shoulder, reading it, and frowns at the end:
— Nonsense. Who would approve two killers for one order? Are they trying to insure you or what?
— Hey! — she is indignant. — Today I was the first. Maybe they are insuring you?
Bianchi's heart almost stops when she realizes who she said this to. Surprisingly, the woman does not hit her in the face at that very second, she only raises her thin eyebrows and asks:
— And what is that supposed to mean?
—;I... — she lowers her head resignedly. — I wanted to hint that you are getting old and maybe they are not sure that you... God, forget it, I just snapped, I’m sorry.
— Did you call me an old woman? — the tone is empty, there is no threat in it, but Bianchi closes her eyes just in case so as not to see her reaction:
— Yes?
Instant death does not happen, so Bianchi still raises her head. In sincere confusion, Reborn face seems almost charming, and then she begins to laugh, and it seems like she gets away with it for her impudence... And then Reborn pushes her towards the approaching crowd of people calling the cops, hiding around the corner.
Bitch.
She may not steal hits from newcomers, but she clearly doesn’t feel sorry for them at all!
If Reborn is near her on the following missions, then she still does not approach, apparently having exhausted the limit on conversations with the one who in some incomprehensible way shares hit points with her. Another target is stolen from Bianchi, accurate shots don’t seem so scary now, and perhaps some subconscious self-confidence is to blame for this in that they definitely won’t shoot her. The best killer won't mess up, right? One night, however, Bianchi comes to the realization that Reborn might not miss, but shoots with the intention of finishing her off, so as not to get in the way, and this gives her dark circles under her eyes in the morning. Reborn still didn’t hit her. And if she decides to get caught, it’s easier to accept it. (Apparently, this is how suicidal thoughts arise! When you are put in front of a hopeless situation!) Then she takes one, trying a new poison that arises from under her Hurricane Flame, and receiving a payment larger than before, so that she has enough not only for housing, but even for new clothes.
So when another target is stolen right from under her nose, shot first in a glass of poison and then in the head, Bianchi goes wild in a new pink flirty dress, and not in a set of a sweater and shorts from the time when she was almost kicked out of mafia school for absolute disrespect for the old shooting instructor.
— Did you decide to spoil my orders on purpose? — she finds Reborn herself this time, stopping in front of the outer walls of the fence, waiting for the woman to jump off it and shake herself off. Cleverly. It’s impossible not to admit it. Bianchi is not sure that she would have been able to climb such a thing at all. — This shot in the glass was special, — there is no question, she saw this moment, it could not have happened by mistake.
— Well, since you deliberately come to where I work, I have to waste more bullets. Sorry not sorry, — Reborn spreads her hands, about to leave, but Bianchi blocks her path:
— I don't steal your hits! I... I fall into the same ones as you by accident.
— That doesn’t interfere with the fact that I can’t get the job done calmly because of you, does it?
Bianchi grits her teeth because, yes, she’s not in the way, but it’s her work that went down the drain, how can she not be angry! Reborn doesn't seem impressed by her rage, as if he doesn't see her as a rival or even a noteworthy newcomer, but maybe Bianchi's face is too hurt, too sad today, because she adds:
— I would be interested in the fact that someone is constantly pushing you to where I work. Maybe you should take a closer look at your social circle, is there anyone there who dreams that you would accidentally fall into my arms? Check your friends and family right away, they are often into this.
— You’re minding your own business, — Bianchi squeezes out, and the expression on other face immediately becomes cool:
— As you wish.
Reborn goes towards the trees, relaxed — and with a hit for which, unlike some, she will receive payment, Bianchi looks at her back, not knowing what words to choose. You are not right? You don't know anything about my family? But Bianchi herself knows: it is full of assholes, and it will be a miracle if her half-brother does not turn out to be the same when he grows up a little. Father, over there, again mocks her failure, saying that, well, competing with such rivals is always exhausting and not everyone has enough strength for such a feat, florid words about her weakness. Bianchi doesn't think any of them wish her death, they still want her back. What would be the use if the eldest child died and it was not possible to successfully diplomatically marry him off? None. It would be a different matter if she failed...
Bianchi freezes, moving around the dark apartment, and freezes before reaching the bed. A thought creeps into her head: can they... No, it’s impossible.
And yet, she falls onto the mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling, how strong is their desire to bring her back under control? Is it strong enough to bribe informants and repeatedly send her on tasks that she will definitely fail, because they were not for her in the first place. Initially strangers. And she herself thought at the beginning that, if anything, losing to Reborn was about calmly accepting fate.
Even so, she outplayed her a couple of times, so screw it all.
Bianchi puts her middle finger in the air, wanting her message to reach everyone who refused to believe in her and still refuses, and goes to bed. True or false, she will not come back, not when she has managed to understand that she still has the opportunity to kill first, poison first, faster than other people’s bullets, and Reborn, even if she gets mad, does not threaten her with physical harm (for now) and does not even express verbal aggression (almost). Still annoyingly condescending, but safe. This must be used.
This needs to be turned into a competition.
This could be... It could even be the moment when Reborn gives her his place, recognizing her skill. Bianchi smiles insidiously at this so far unrealizable dream and then hastily thinks about how, on the contrary, nothing will work out for her and that her own client will finish her off: just in case, otherwise usually if you dream a lot about good things, you don’t get any good things at all, only clicked from fate of varying degrees of pain.
— What, are you stealing my hits again? — Reborn asks in such a tone, as if she was tired without really doing anything. Bianchi proudly puts her hands on her hips, standing in the middle of a family collapsed from poison:
— It's your problem that I was faster.
— You called me an old woman, so make allowance for my slowness, — the woman rolls her eyes, stepping over her outstretched legs in dark trousers and approaching the dining table. — What kind of poison?
— My own design, you won’t repeat it.
— I didn’t intend to, it’s not my type of work.
Sounds like a lie. There's no way she's never had to kill with poison or at least a weapon with poison, she looks like someone who would do it for fun.
Reborn raises a glass of clear white wine, examining it by sight and smell, and Bianchi chuckles even more proudly: she won’t find anything there. Bianchi’s flame turns ordinary things into exceptional toxins; rumors even began to circulate about her that she herself was poisonous, like the heroine of some American comic books, and this was flattering. She may not be successful enough, but she's not successful enough only because she was thrown right out of the gate to the main boss without even getting the first ten levels, and despite the fact that she wasn't successful enough, she attracted attention. It's the most important! She didn’t like working as a shadow assassin and hiding her face, she wanted to enjoy the results of her work, and in general, do you see Reborn? If she can occupy the brightest place in the sun for so long, then so can Bianchi! Maybe it's time for her to get a tattoo or something to be more recognizable...
Reborn, having checked the glass and knowing for sure that there is poison in it, takes and pours this wine into herself.
Bianchi snaps out of her thoughts, staring in holy horror.
— What are you doing?! — she screams in a whisper, coming closer and almost clutching her head.
— I’m checking how good the poison is, — it sounds terrible, it sounds disgusting, what kind of suicidal tendencies?.. Is this the result they develop into after humility and all the other stages? Is this coming for Bianca too? — Don’t worry so much, poisons don’t affect me. I'm too good as a Sun.
— Ah? — Bianchi freezes questioningly. Reborn doesn’t look like she’s dying right now, or even a couple of seconds later, and considering how the ordered people collapsed after a couple of sips, only managing to wheeze, this... It’s strange. — You are a Sun? — she asks, the first thing that comes to her mind, and immediately puts her palm to her face, feeling like an idiot.
— No, damn it. Storm. A cross with Lightning. Something of such a disgusting brown hue, — the woman rolls her eyes, still not falling dead, but Bianchi looks suspiciously, what if she does it now. And will she then be able to take credit for her death... It would be such a quick career leap, just like in the books, from rags to becoming the killer of the best killer of this century. — Not bad. So next time I’ll just blow up the kitchen so they don’t have time to touch the food.
— But explosions are not your specialty!
— I’ll change it for your sake, be proud.
Bianchi is proud — but not very proud. With the money raised from the murder of her family, she gets herself a tattoo: a scorpion on the bend of her shoulder, Reborn clings to it with interest, still healing under the film, with his eyes, says nothing, and steals the next four hits. Four! In the second week, Bianchi sincerely hates her, and Reborn is obviously amused by this, because she does not ignore the angry glances and puffing, but urges her on, even sticking her tongue out once before running off across the rooftops, and Bianchi powerlessly kicks the half-empty trash can, wincing from the roar.
Bianchi tears out her hit, literally throwing acid into stunned face, while Reborn, a couple of steps away from her, raises his eyebrows in amazement, and Bianchi may be imagining things, but they look at her with delight.
— Inventive, — she gives her a dramatic bow, and Bianchi turns up her nose. Damn drama.
— You deprived me of my income for a week!
— One hit can’t be that cheap, so you definitely have a livelihood, — Reborn waves her off, preparing to leave, and raises his eyebrows when he sees Bianchi catching up with her and walking nearby. — What do you want?
— I’ll steal your next hit, — says Bianchi.
— No, — Reborn shakes her head. — Accept that your opponent is too serious for your level.
— No. I'll steal your next hit. We can bet, — Bianchi stands in front of her again, as in their first meeting. — For something frivolous. I will win and... And you will give me advice!
— Yes? — her voice suddenly seems... Too low. Bianchi doesn't understand what's changing in that face, but she feels her cheeks warming up from such a close look at her. — And what will I get if I win?
— Um... What can I give in return?
Reborn looks at her for a while, causing strange goosebumps to run across her skin, and then shrugs her shoulders, rounding her and moving further towards the exit:
— All your payment for the next hit, in which you will suddenly be able to earn money.
She decided to really leave her without any means of livelihood this time?!
This thought is alarming, no less alarming than: why did she have such a reaction to someone else's attention, she still thinks that maybe this is how death approaches feel, but to be honest, she did not feel fear. So she is confused.
And when she snatches the hit from under the nose of Reborn, who grunts arrogantly when she sees how the acid, having eaten away part of the body, continues to corrode the tiles on the floor, then the disturbing thoughts recede and only triumph remains. She strides, approaching the woman, swaying her hips and smiling charmingly — this is how winners smile, Bianchi knows this, because now she is the winner and look at her face: it obviously speaks of all the emotions that she experiences. Joy. Pride. Gloat.
—Try to create a poison that won’t melt the weapon. This will allow you to fight not only through traps, but also in close combat. I know you can just throw something in face, but there are also empty spaces. And the variety of attacks always confuses the enemy, especially when you have something that stands out from the usual fighting style, — Reborn folds her arms over chest and speaks before Bianchi even has time to mention an argument. — Is this sufficient advice?
— Yes, — Bianchi says without thinking, simply stunned that Reborn admitted defeat so easily. Later, monotonously counting the cash, she accepts this advice and thinks that, yes, it is good. She didn't think about it. She would also like to find someone who would agree to train her, she even thinks about arguing with Reborn again, but... But damn it, she is so resentful! It turns out that if she loses the argument and calmly complies with the conditions, this does not mean that later your life will not be ruined, because Reborn not only steals her orders for the next few weeks, but does not even let you get close to them. She pokes her nose at every mistake that Bianchi can't keep up with and continues to mock her until she finally calms down, and if someone calls it "training", Bianchi will shoot that person. This is not training! She is getting revenge! It's humiliating, and it's dishonest, and it's... And Reborn's advice actually works, damn them.
Reborn’s advice works, and Bianchi triumphs, managing to finish with a goal and without seeing or feeling someone else’s presence. This should seem suspicious to her — but not when joy takes over her from within, not when she is dancing in place, waiting for Reborn to come here too, this time to gloat over her. Doubts begin to arise when the euphoria subsides, there is a cold poisoned corpse nearby, silence — and nothing and no one else.
The next moment Bianchi is running.
She hears footsteps approaching, and she knows that it is not Reborn — too bulky, too heavy for this woman, too big, because it is catching up with her even before she gets out of this basement, roughly grabbing her hair, so that the eyes are blinding from the pain:
— There you are, little slut. And I was wondering whether you would drag yourself or not, — Bianchi arches her back from a sharp pull downwards by her hair and hisses in pain. — Apparently, you really follow Reborn everywhere, the guys were right, — she looks into the face — the face of the victim, the face of the hit, whom she seemed to have poisoned — and spits, getting somewhere on the cheek, so that he just howls. There were rumors that it was poisonous through and through? It was worth believing them.
— Scum! — he does not let go of her hair, but Bianchi herself tries to break free, she even hears something cracking, most likely strands torn out by the roots, but this is a small price to pay for freedom. — I'll show you how!..
A shot sounds.
It's deafening this time because it thunders too close to her.
Bianca is no stranger to blood and its smell, not when you grow up from childhood in a world where the value of human life is assessed as a subsistence minimum for a week. But even so, she wasn't prepared to end up with blood trying to flow into her nose and ears. She pushes the limp body away from her, wiping her face and making it seem worse, because the skin begins to sting, and the blood on her hands does not decrease. There are footsteps nearby — and she knows these: light, deliberately sounding to announce their approach, but capable of disappearing at any moment. Reborn stops nearby and suddenly nervously asks:
— Alright?
Bianchi opens her eyelashes, hoping that nothing will run into her eyes, and looks at her in surprise:
— Yes... — then turns to the body nearby. — Thank you?..
— You are welcome, — a perky chuckle. — It was an ambush on you, — Reborn becomes more serious, gloomily looking at her and her attempts, now more successful, to wipe her face with the fabric of her T-shirt. — I don’t know if you’ve tried to find those who are constantly pushing you towards me, but it’s worth hurrying up and sorting this out. It will be unpleasant if they start hunting you.
— For what? — Bianchi asks in bewilderment. — Because I’m trying to work, but it turns out like this?
— Because you’re always next to me, obviously, — Reborn shrugs. She snorts mockingly in response:
— You have a big ego.
— I have reasons for this. You should be glad it's this size and not even worse.
Really. Bianchi clicks her tongue, turning to look at the body: lying calmly on the ground, but last time that wasn't a guarantee, was it? So she takes a couple of steps away from him, just in case, and flinches in surprise when a heavy, warm jacket with a delicious scent of perfume, which usually followed Reborn in a trail, falls onto her shoulders. The woman raises an eyebrow at her reaction and rolls her eyes.
— The blood needs to be hidden. You don't want to explain to the random panicked civilian who sees you that it's just a print.
Bianchi watches her thoughtfully when Reborn checks to see if anyone is waiting for them at the exit, becomes even more thoughtful when she is escorted home, and is completely lost when in the end the jacket remains on her shoulders, and Reborn shows a peace sign when says goodbye and walks away past the identical yellowish houses in area, completely out of place with this street. Bianchi feels her gaze of its own accord to her shoulders and slide to her waist before she turns away in shame, not wanting to be rude even when no one is looking at her (it's stupid to think that Reborn won't notice such close attention), the jacket feels good on the shoulders, and the strangest thing is, even left here now, Bianchi feels safe. As if such a walk would scare off potential bounty hunters, huh.
The jacket is hopelessly damaged, but Bianchi is still not going to throw it away.
Bianchi thinks that she probably called Reborn an old woman just to offend her more. Unsuccessfully, of course, but she didn't mean it that way. Because now, remembering her face and tall, strong figure, she feels nothing but sudden embarrassment and heat rising to her cheeks. Oh shit. So this is how it happens. And she was still surprised that this was some kind of stupidity: who would like such a nasty and smug woman. Well, apparently, she would. Her father, after she says that she was almost killed by her own hit and that today is her first day when she literally swam in blood, turns pale and remains silent until Bianchi retells Reborn’s words that, apparently, someone from the closest circle of people wishes her a quick death, constantly setting her up so that she is close to Reborn, becoming a living target. And then he hangs up. Bianchi knows already at this moment that her assumptions were correct. But with the next hit nothing changes.
Reborn does not ask for the jacket back, although she is not going to give up Bianca's hit, shooting faster than the poison can work. Suddenly, this doesn’t make her feel powerless rage, as before, but... absolute delight, sincere admiration for her deadliness. Reborn, not hearing the usual indignation, looks at her doubtfully, but does not try to dig deeper. But Bianchi — yes:
— You were right, — she says.
— About what? — Reborn is having fun. — I’m always right, but I want specifics.
Bianchi understands that this is the end when such open teasing does not make her want to snap back for being mistaken for a free attraction, but on the contrary, the idea of teasing in return appears. Smile at this and twirl a strand of hair on finger. The last time Bianchi fell in love was when she was a child and, after hearing many other people’s stories, she thought that she wouldn’t experience anything like that at twenty-two. She was wrong, wasn't she? Because this is exactly the same feeling that she had when she saw Romeo, even though he turned out to be an infantile fool and now she is glad that he had gone to another world
— You... You’re reacting very strangely, — Reborn says after a long silence, and if Bianchi could, she would have huddled in a corner somewhere right now, because all this time she was just staring? While lost in your thoughts? It's a shame.
Reborn has a nasty character, she reminds Bianchi of this moment from time to time, rejecting any attempt at flirting or teasing, and Bianchi is extremely competitive, this ignites in her a greater desire to somehow get to the bottom of it, in order to still embarrass, after all, so that all these jokes and conversations turned... At least into a normal conversation, because Reborn is not going to talk about herself either. Even about her favorite color. Bianchi guesses it only because she always wears shirts of different shades of yellow. There's no reason to be so mysterious about your favorite season and food! Reborn laughs — she seems to have an overly understanding look, but Bianchi is sure that she is imagining things. She just doesn't take her seriously. She needs to try harder.
— Seriously, no information even about your birthday? — Bianchi pouts her lips in disappointment, sitting down nearby, already knowing that Reborn lost on this hit, because after one sip the man ran away towards the toilets and has not returned for an hour. Therefore, Reborn displeasedly taps her nails on the table and snorts arrogantly:
— The thirteenth, I told you.
— The thirteenth number occurs twelve times a year!
— A reason to give me thirteen gifts, don’t you think?
Bianchi turns her head away, offended, but almost immediately comes up with a new question to pester. Reborn rests her head on palm, having clearly resigned herself lately to the fact that they are trying to find out more about her in the most shameless and direct way, and makes a tired face. Actually, she shouldn’t be the one making it! It’s Bianchi who’s trying to find out at least something, but it feels like she’s hitting a wall every time.
— If you were a fruit, what kind would you be?
— Oh, God, — the woman chuckles, and then a pained groan escapes her lips. How dramatic. — No one has ever reached this level of interrogation of me.
— But this is a harmless question. Will you answer it? — Bianchi mirrors her pose and flutters her eyelashes in a playfully naive manner. And clicks tongue irritably, losing face when she sees that even to this Reborn shakes head negatively. — But why?!
— Because I don’t have to answer strange questions with a strange motive.
Logical, but still unpleasant. Bianchi leans back in her chair, crosses her legs aggressively and is silent for a couple of seconds before a new idea comes to her mind:
— I associate myself with cherries.
Reborn looks at her without mocking or laughing, so she risks continuing.
— Look, my hair is a similar shade, — she lifts the smooth strands in her palm, they slide between her fingers and fall back onto her chest. — Cherry print suits me, — he pulls off a white T-shirt with a cherry print. — And cherry color, — points to skinny jeans. — I am one hundred percent cherry.
— And it's all? — Reborn narrows her eyes, looking at her, and Bianchi senses a catch, but cannot realize what it is. However, this is clearly not something that can kill her, so it's not scary. — I thought you would have more things.
— I have cherry notes in my perfume! I'm sure you feel them, — and when Reborn nods, she preens herself rather contentedly. — I like to eat cherries in cakes and ice cream, and I also have a lot of jewelry with them. But I also have a lot of them with strawberries, so I guess it doesn’t count?
— Need to compare in quantity what will win, — Bianchi melts under a light smile, feeling a pink blush warming her face. She doesn't classify it as a cherry thing so as not to sound ridiculous, although her whole being screams that Reborn would appreciate such a joke. She doesn't just want to be friends! She... She wants her to be interested in her in a different way. Look differently. She's already made some jokes, so she's sitting nearby, and Reborn doesn't even object to her presence. But all you had to do was tolerate her character a little to have such an opportunity. The rest, apparently, were weak, because before that, Bianchi next to her had only seen others from the strongest Seven (eight, in fact, she never understood why they were called that if there were not seven of them) and some bosses, such as Timoteo di Vongola. So she considered the fact that she could be in the company of her and not fear for her life a reason for pride.
— Oh, well, I bought cherry chapstick recently, — she takes out pink lipstick from her white hip bag. — Also cherry, look how it smells.
Bianchi brings it closer, not enough to poke it in the face, but enough to feel the cloying sweetness. Reborn winces at this, leaning away from her:
— Just scented wax.
— No, it's cherry! — Bianchi stubbornly objects, renewing it on her lips.
— Really?
— Yes!
Bianchi inhales loudly when a hand reaches out to her face, unexpectedly gently turning chin towards her, and stops breathing in response when Reborn kisses her. A couple of long seconds during which she manages to see how dark eyelashes flutter, hiding the piercing gaze of black eyes, during which she manages to squeak in shame in surprise when a tongue slides over her lips, not trying to deepen the kiss, and during which her heart accelerates to a rhythm in which people should not remain alive. Reborn moves away as quickly as she approached her (and there was absolutely no need to run her fingers along the jaw line at the end, Bianchi is already dying!), and gets up from her seat, rolling her eyes:
— It tastes like regular wax.
Bianchi silently opens her mouth and slams it shut, like a motley fish in an aquarium, and when the realization finally dawns on her, Reborn is already waving goodbye to her, leaving the hall and probably disappearing into thin air, because nowhere except for hits or in places where they take hits, Bianchi didn’t see her. She is left alone, surrounded by people who continue to scurry back and forth, not knowing that there is now a corpse in the toilet, with an unappetizing soup of organs inside, and blushes so brightly that it almost blends in color with her jeans.
Reborn wouldn't kiss just because she wanted to test what lipstick tasted like? Yes?