Dalaric "Ricky" Mikael was known for two things; being the country's best assassin and being a silent brute.
His demons enveloped him in darkness and he saw no light at the end of any tunnel.
Until a girl, who's weird and wears nothing but a pair of...
"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how."
- Friedrich Nietzsche
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He blinked. His blank face seemed- I don't know, Seemed...nothing? He didn't respond with- thank you or what the hell?
No one ever complimented my looks so I don't how you actually respond to a compliment.
He simply walked back to the mahogany desk and sat down in a huge office chair that could roll.
I fricking live for rolly chairs.
The wall behind the desk was entirely covered in glass, you could see the entire landscape of the busy town. People hanging out with friends in some corners. It must be great.
The rest of the room was in a theme of black and red. The doors were a blood red and the carpet was stark black as well as the wooden floors. That's a lot of black.
It reminded me of dracula. Maybe I should ask him if he was a vampire- wait, that's stupid. I mentally remind myself to purchase the midnight sun book that just released which has Edward Cullens Point of view. I can't really afford it but I could borrow-
My trail of thoughts were interrupted by a faint clicking. I brought my eyes back to Mr. Pretty who now wore leather gloves and was using a black cloth to clean-
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
He was cleaning guns. Three guns lay parallel to each other on the desk, each separated gun part glistening in the moon light from the window.
He did it very quickly, taking out the magazine in a second and looking into it with one eye and putting it back. All in one second. He cleaned the barrel with a long rod and continued to do so with the other two guns.
He looked even more intimidating and cooler.
Like those girls who had the fairy princess bags in primary when I was stuck with a rug sack that my mom used to feed the birds- okay, maybe not that kind of cool.
I gulped before sitting down on the chair right in front of the desk, frowning because it wasn't a rolly chair. Fake.
The man didn't meet my eyes until I cleared my throat and muttered gleefully.
"Can I try that?"
His movements halted before he set the guns down and looked me right in the eye. His grey eyes scanned me as if searching for something.
Probably thought I was a spy or something. But I mean, the wet linkin park tee and beer soaked hair, really?
His blank face did not falter as he cracked his neck. He moved his neck in both directions and sighed in relief?
