Snippet #2632641

It was a quiet night.

Hanako held the gun to the young Yakuza's head calmly, her eyes shining, reflective, and narrowed in the light of the streetlamp--lips curled into a sinister grin.

"I have to ask, do you know who I am?"

She already knew the answer, judging by the sheer pettiness of the crime he had tried to commit and the irreverence with which it was committed, so the dismissive shake of his head was entirely expected. Her purse was at her side, a large, unassuming bag in which she kept her -essentials- in and unharmed save a small tear on the strap. It was nothing she couldn't repair and she herself was fine, but she hadn't worked so long and hard as an arms dealer to be accosted by some low-life who hadn't yet learned his place in the world. He needed to be shown the error of his ways and, as a generous woman, she was going to do just that. His trembling indicated he might fear for his life and, though he wouldn't be wrong in doing so, she wasn't going to kill him.

At least, not entirely.

With a lightning quick movement of her hand she slashed his face, blood dripping from the thin wound that had so suddenly appeared on his face. It was a shame--he wasn't entirely unattractive, but scars were commonplace in the Yakuza. With a bit of blood on her nails, she brought them to her lips and took a taste, her smile unwavering.

"O+? How common, though I'm not at all surprised. Common blood from a common criminal."

Tears formed in his eyes and, as they streamed down his face, it mingled with the blood, diluting it. He was a mess at this point and, as fun as it would be to kill him, she doubted it would benefit her much to piss off his "friends". Relations with the Yakuza, while decent recently, were a fickle thing and, as her primary buyers, she didn't want to alienate them. Instead she reached down and to the gun he had fumbled, which was unsurprisingly one of hers. It was a cheaper model, but it did the job and, as it stood, it would continue to do the job.

"I want you to go back to your boss and ask him a question. 'Who did we buy this from'?"

Her smile shifted slightly, her eyes darkening and her face growing closer to his.

"And I -never- want you to forget the answer. Do you understand?"

With that, she left, the rounds from the gun safely in hand. It was a very quiet night indeed--the silence pierced only by a the man's scrambling footsteps and the clinking and clattering of the ammo. She hadn't yet eaten (her late night walk so rudely interrupted) so she began to make her way back to the shop, where fresher, rarer blood waited.