Kisuya Akaneki was an obelisk of a man. Born pure, they said, of a father and mother who were blanketed in old ink. Dead from the life early, when their boy had to trust in guardians to run the little branch of the organisation. His blue blood in the black work had bought him clear eyes and clear skin. Not a needle on him, his pretty neck sticking out of the collar said as much. The tie was expensive, and the suit highlighted his youthful body. He'd taken the helm when he came of the right age, which was fifteen. They'd grown with him and his appetite, feeding him group after group of opposers.<br/><br/>The armchair in Naoto's apartment might as well have been a throne. Naoto and his large mouth should have been humbled to see the young king come down himself. But the snitch had known what the visit was for. Not a knighting with a single edged sword, or any other promotion other than a sendoff to the afterlife. Blood on the floor and a single speckled red wing on the wall. Kisuya didn't mind the dirty work, and the cut with the knife had been miserably perfect, so much so there were no drops of Naoto's disloyal life on his suit.<br/><br/>There were a handful of men looking through the small place. Different sizes for different uses, all his soldiers. Day outside, but none of the lights in the ceiling were on. Kisuya had asked for the switches to be flicked. It was better this way, since the sun was insistent, anyway. Truth was he reveled in his legend, and liked the shadow fangs on his face. Sometimes he was animated, belligerent and comical, and sometimes he was this ghost with endless stories hanging like shreds on his coat tail, building him to be a dapper, abyssal deity.<br/><br/>Naoto laid face-up on the carped by the coffee table. He'd not landed like that, he'd fallen on his knees and bounced his forehead on the floorboards, but Kisuya had shoved his limp shoulder to turn him. Now the late snitch was sprawled with his limbs out like a star, a new mouth on his Adams apple, drooling thick, black, iron-scented consequence. At least he'd had the decency to die properly. It made things easier, pleasant, almost. And now he was the very image of sacrifice, a price for his own hubris, at the lacquered shoes of the titan he'd insulted.<br/><br/>Kisuya was immaculate, sitting while scrutinizing activity rummage the living-space of the dead medium-level member. A stoic soul in this storm that was half-afterlife, and half celebration of the dark things living men do. His hair was stroked back, black like his suit but with a sheen, and his eyebrows were sharp to lend to his wickedness. Wives of other men liked to adore him for his pretty details and the grey-to-brown eyes, but really he commanded their attention the same way a wolf commands attention from rodents. It thrilled them, made their hearts into rattling leafs, boiled their breath, excited them, because they didn't recognize the tantalization as fear.<br/><br/>"Enough. Come here. Stand behind me. It's about the time he told his partner to be here. Stand behind me. Be quiet." And the four men did. Now they had to wait for the person Naoto had been tattling to.