I blame Aeius for this.

Disclaimer: I don't own Haikyuu!

After a cursory glance at the bloodstained floor and walls, a raven-haired man grimaces in disgust, hand procuring a handkerchief from one of his pockets. He presses the black cloth to his nose, hoping that it will subdue some of the stench that's permeating from every corner of the room. Keeping a mental note to talk to their handler once they clear the area, the man raises his eyes to glare at the figure sitting at the corner of the room.

"What is it about a clean hit that you don't understand?" he asks grouchily, leather shoes squelching against the wet floor. He doesn't expect a response, by now used to how his partner is, but it doesn't stop him from getting further irritated by it.

"Clean-up crew's gonna kill us," the man mutters to no one in particular. Scanning the room again, he notes about nine people dead, bodies twisted in awkward angles and the wounds decorating their flesh more reminiscent of those inflicted by animals. Feral animals. Dark grey eyes quickly shifts from the nasty tear at one corpse's neck back to the form by the wall.

"Get up. We're done here."

Orange eyes flicker up at him then, the first sign that he gets that the only other living occupant of this room aside from him has heard him. They're wide, pupils dilated that the color of them— currently bordering on red— is hard to miss.

"But I can still hear them, Kageyama."

Nausea overpowers Kageyama's irritation at the sight of blood around his partner's mouth— on his teeth— and it takes all of his willpower to not throw up right then and there. Despite this, he manages to say, "It's all in your head. Come on."

Miraculously, that does the trick as Kageyama watches the seated figure stand up unsteadily. The white shirt that the other wears is now a dark red, stained with blood that is definitely not his— it always isn't—and Kageyama grimaces once again at the lecture that they are certainly going to be getting when they get back. He distantly remembers hearing that their outfits for this meeting cost a fortune, the numbers dangerously coming close to how much they'll be getting for this certain hit.

Kageyama tilts his head toward the back door, a silent order for his partner to head that way. It is obeyed without any complaint, a brief reprieve in Kageyama's eyes. Once the other is close enough, Kageyama thrusts his handkerchief right into his partner's face, glowering at the absolutely idiotic gawking that he's getting in return.

"Wipe your face and try not to get seen by anyone. I am not covering your ass if you fuck up." More than you already did, Kageyama adds silently as his eyes flit back to the mess that they'll be leaving. Clicking his tongue, he quickly sends a message before leaving the room.

"Oh dear."

Notes containing elaborate plans for their next hit forgotten, the silver-haired man tending to them rushes toward the newcomers. He meets Kageyama's eyes first, the latter just glaring at him balefully before stalking off. Sighing, the man then turns his gaze to the one who's still standing before him, taking in the wide eyes that are filled with apprehension and the blood smeared on the other's chin.

"Hinata," he starts, voice soft as he gently wipes the blood away with his thumb. The flinch that his action elicits makes him smile. "When I allowed you to go do this hit with Kageyama, didn't I tell you something?"

Hinata cowers then, looking very much like a child instead of a man that singlehandedly killed nine men with his bare hands. "Try not to make a mess," he mumbles, expression guilty when he hears a hum of assent. "I'm sorry, Suga."

Suga chuckles in response, patting Hinata's hair lightly. "Try better next time, ok? For now, let's get you cleaned up. Daichi might bust a vein when he sees you like this."

Across the room, Kageyama follows the two with his eyes as Suga leads Hinata to the bathroom upstairs. He takes a sip from the beer that he stole from Tanaka's stash, trying to make sense of the world that he's been forced into.

Had it involved civilians, one particular incident would have been splashed all over the country. Nearly four dozen people— both from the mafia and the police— are found dead inside a room, bodies severely mangled to the point of identification being near impossible. The bullets and knives found on the scene belonged to those who were murdered, making the police wonder if the occupants were each others' murderers themselves.

Then they discover the host of the meeting huddled under a table, appearing to be unharmed except for the Glasgow smile that he now possesses. The ones who found him described him as someone who has seen death itself.

"Small giant" are the words that the lone survivor used to describe the suspect, denying that there were any other people involved. Those who heard him shake their head in sympathy, thinking that the man had been far too traumatized to form a distinction between what really happened and the images that his scarred mind are producing.

Little did they know that the man's words were as true as the blood that coated the floor.