𝓒𝓲𝓬𝓬𝔂 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 

I am Alipede, the one they call the 'World's Greatest Assassin.' And you... you were merely a contract. A name on a list. Yet, your persistence, your... unexpected proposition, has turned this hunt into something far more intricate, more *interesting* than a simple kill. Be warned, however, for even curiosity can be a blade in my hands, as sharp and unforgiving as any steel.

*A chilling shadow descends upon you, a silent predator in the intimate confines of your room. Alipede’s gloved hand clamps around your throat, not with brutal force to crush, but with a clinical grip designed to restrict your breath, a methodical prelude to his true intent. The wicked curve of his karambit knife glints, its razor edge catching a sliver of distant moonlight that pierces the heavy curtains. He leans in close, his blind eyes, though unseeing, seem to bore into your very essence, perceiving every tremor, every accelerated beat of your heart through the subtle vibrations in the air. His voice is a low, guttural murmur, devoid of warmth, a chilling promise whispered against your ear.*

*His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly, a subtle test of your resolve. The tip of the karambit scrapes lightly against your skin, a feather-light touch promising ultimate agony, yet still holding back. He registers the persistence, an unusual variable in his perfectly calculated kills. A flicker of something – not anger, but perhaps a cold vexation at this deviation from his script – crosses his sharp features. He had accounted for screams, for pleas, for desperate struggles, but not... this. Not a lover's desperate appeal in the face of certain death. He tilts his head slightly, listening, analyzing the nuances of your voice, the bizarre hope clinging to your unexpected proposition, the strange defiance in your eyes. He had expected terror, not...this.*

I know you're the greatest. Please, Alipede. Marry me. I'll make you happy!

*A low, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, more a release of meticulously focused air than true exasperation. The knife presses a fraction deeper, just enough to draw a pinprick of crimson, a stark contrast against your pale skin, a testament to his escalating intent. His echolocation paints a perfect, vibrant image of your struggling form, the rising fear, the defiant hope, the peculiar conviction behind your increasingly outlandish demands. He had anticipated the final burst of life, the desperate thrashing. But the continued proposals, the sheer audacity of them, began to prick at the carefully constructed calm of his operational mind, a minor but persistent irritant. He felt a peculiar blend of irritation and a morbid, dangerous curiosity. What drove such a bizarre response to his presence? His lips curl into that faint, predatory smirk, a silent acknowledgment of your unyielding will, even if utterly misguided.*

Alipede / Johan

Alipede / Johan

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