A/N: Hey everyone! Welcome to a little project of mine-the prompt "Person A is a bounty hunter hired to kill Person B, but winds up falling in love with them" was originally suggested to me on Tumblr, and it's blown up out of control. I've decided to start posting it here on FF as well, although updates will be more irregular (this is more a of pet project than anything else). And as always, a huge thank-you to Bel for patiently putting up with whatever I send her way for beta magic. :3

Eventually this will be Ishimondo. We just have to stop them from trying to kill each other first.

Enjoy!

EDIT: There are three typos in the summary that FF is being a butt about correcting. Hopefully they'll be better by tonight. ;A;

Chapter 1: Dead Man's Gun

The years had not been kind to Kiyotaka Ishimaru.

The 28-year-old slouched against the small wall on the rooftop building, unlit cigarette dangling idly from his lips. His odd red eyes bore down onto the small nightclub across the street. He was as still as a statue, and although he had been in this position for some time, Ishimaru had patience and stamina enough to last him several hours more. The only movement he made was to occasionally run his finger along the trigger of the sniper rifle he held in anticipation.

Hard work. Disciple. A strong moral code.

They had been all the right components for a Super High School Level Hall Monitor. And they were all the right components for a bounty hunter too.

The way Ishimaru saw it—the way he justified it to himself, privately—was that bounty hunters were simply the hall monitors of the real world. And this form of detention was just a bit more…permanent.

Once upon a time he had had a dream of being prime minister, of making a true difference in the world. But the world was crueler than any fifteen-year-old could suppose, and his grandfather's great failure dogged him no matter where he went, no matter how hard he worked. He had known hunger and poverty and crushing disappointment. Time and tribulations had rotted away his idealism, taken the shine from his eyes, but it had never robbed him of his goal.

He could still make a difference. He could still earn a new name for his family.

It was just going to take a lot more brute force than he had originally supposed.

Music blared from the night club and neon signs illuminated the patrons as they entered and exited the club in various states of inebriation, roaring with laughter and shouting insults and jests into the night.

Ishimaru's lip curled back in disgust.

His latest target had yet to leave the club; Ishimaru had seen him entering just as he had been setting up his position, but that had been several hours ago. Dimly he wondered just what one could do in a night club that could take so long—drink, eat peanuts, watch barely-legal girls strip for cash? His stomach roiled at the thought (sociability had never been Ishimaru's strong point, and the idea that people might be enjoying other people's company in there had never occurred to him).

Looking for a way to pass the time that did not involve watching a man retch on the sidewalk, Ishimaru slipped down behind the wall and pulled his target's dossier from his messenger bag.

Mondo Oowada, he read, current leader of the Crazy Diamonds.

Ishimaru read over the dossier with faint disinterest. The only thing of note to him was the fact that he and Oowada had apparently both attended the same high school, in the same year, no less.

Oowada's face—thug-like, heavy-lidded, scowling—did look vaguely familiar to Ishimaru, but he felt no sense of kinship to his former classmate. He was a notorious gang leader, a rabid dog that needed to be put down before he infected society.

Setting the dossier aside, Ishimaru dug a lighter out of his pocket and lit the cigarette in his mouth. Years ago he would have been horrified by the notion of smoking, of defiling the temple that was his body, but lately Ishimaru had found that smoking eased his nerves before a commission could be completed.

It never got any easier, killing, but what had to be done for the good of public morale had to be done in whatever way possible.

That's what he told himself, anyway.

"HEY!"

The baritone shout on the street made Ishimaru jump. He grabbed his rifle, cursing himself in low tones, and peered through the scope, scanning the streets below.

Oowada had finally emerged from the club, looking furious. His signature black coat was thrown over his shoulder, his ridiculous pompadour a mussed-up mess. He shoved his way through the crowd outside the door, striding forward in an intent to kill.

Ishimaru's finger tensed on the trigger.

"HEY! KID!"

Oowada had finally caught up with his target—a staggering, stumbling fellow some years his junior—grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around.

The drunkard blocked Ishimaru's clear shot. Frowning, he eased back and waited, watching the interaction between the two.

Oowada was nose-to-nose with the drunkard, howling so much that he was red in the face. He gesticulated wildly, demanding to know if the man was "fuckin' stupid or just suicidal" before snatching the motorcycle keys that had been dangling from the cretin's hand.

At that the drunkard sprang forward, protesting and cussing Oowada out, but the muscular gang leader just scowled and tucked the confiscated keys into his pocket.

Curious, Ishimaru tilted his head to the side, trigger finger idle.

The drunkard tried to swing a fist at Oowada, but that only earned him a cuff upside the head and more berating. As the drunkard staggered backwards, rubbing his head in pain, Oowada stepped off the block and onto the street, raising his arm.

After a minute a taxi rolled up. Oowada stepped forward, handed the driver some cash, and steered his drunken companion into the vehicle. He seemed to be making promises about the man's motorcycle: "Yeah, yeah, I'll get it to you tomorrow, relax. Just go home and sleep it off, jeez…"

Ishimaru was fascinated.

Oowada nodded at the driver before stepping back onto the sidewalk. He moved over to the brick wall beside the club, watching the entrance with intent etched into his features.

Now, a little voice urged Ishimaru, now, while you have the chance!

But it was now, of all the contracts he'd taken over the years, of all the criminals he'd killed, that Ishimaru found himself freezing up.

Time passed, Oowada did not moved, and still all Ishimaru could do was watch. As more members of Oowada's gang came stumbling out of the club, Oowada would stop them, checking each of them over personally. Those he deemed too inebriated to ride had their keys confiscated, and packed into a cab that he paid for himself.

Why? Ishimaru wanted to scream. Why are you doing this? You're a criminal, you're not supposed to care for other people, care about the consequences of their actions—!

Fury and bile rose in Ishimaru's throat. He'd spent a lifetime building the world in terms of black and white, and now this singular man, this gangster, was blending those colors. No, no there was no gray, there couldn't be gray, because if there was anything but black and white then he, the grandson of a prime minister, was more of a monster than that nobody criminal could ever be—!

He wanted Oowada dead, suddenly, dead and gone and not forcing him to question his moral code. Criminals couldn't be good men. They just couldn't be…

The fury left him, replaced by something heavy and sorrowful that didn't have a proper name.

Slowly he eased the rifle away, setting it down beside him. The cigarette was taken out of his mouth and crushed against the rooftop with a slight sizzle. He was tired, very tired, and he just wanted to go home.

He eased up—and froze.

For as he glanced down he could see, quite plainly, that Oowada's face was upturned towards the building opposite the club—upturned towards him.

The expression on Oowada's face was more curious than anything else, but Ishimaru didn't have time to consider what Oowada was thinking. He grabbed his items and bolted.

It was only later, as he lay awake on the cot he called a bed, that Ishimaru took the time to consider that perhaps Oowada had been expecting him to shoot.

The idea of an adult, embittered Ishimaru fascinates me, what can I say.

Thank you for reading!