When coming up with an idea for this story, I pondered one question and one alone: What makes people kill? I know it's kind of dark, but I don't know the answer. Is it hate? Or love? Jealousy or vanity? Purpose or accident? What about assassins? I guess that's the central theme of this story. I like it, but I know that deep down I'm really a terrible writer. So, if anyone who reads this story has any suggestions, please tell me. I want to make it the best it can be. Thank you so much, and enjoy! A/N: Told from Seto's POV.

Warning: This story is based on yaoi, so if anyone doesn't like it I beg of you, DO NOT READ!

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh.

I'd Kill for You

Chapter One: Insomnia

Night swarmed over the city like an infestation of darkness. I've always hated the night. It meant so many things to me, most of them bad. Scratch that, all of them bad.

From my office in Kaiba Corporations on the top floor, one can look out the window and see the scope of the entire city, literally. I have spent hours just watching them, (and yes I do have a life). In the daytime people bustled and cars honked. Groups of kids made their way to and from school in a state of camaraderie; joking and playing like life didn't hold any secrets from them. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn't. If any of them knew, they did an excellent job of concealing the fact.

When night dropped in like a sudden, weirdly expected visit from a maniac on a warm afternoon, people slowly, meticulously went home and forgot their daytime troubles in sleep. The lights in all the buildings went out one by one at the pace of a dying man. By midnight, all the light was out. This is a lonely time for people still awake. Insomniacs like me who kept awake were usually the ones without any comfort. And no one knew about them, not even people who thought they did. It wasn't even a secret, it was a lie. The lie was so good, people in the world actually started believing it, like it was the truth, and eventually they forgot it even was a lie. They forgot that life was frightening, even when you were safe. That people who have power use it and abuse it.

As if I could forget. Let me tell you, I could forget that like I could forget the phone call I received earlier that day. "Tonight. Midnight on Cherry Street. Don't forget, you owe us your company." I could never forget that, either. My company was in their hands, basically. Their bloody hands of the Mafia. The Black Hand.

I looked down at my watch. 11:30 in the p.m. How long had I been sitting here? The last thing I remembered was the sun going down. I held my head in my hands. "I'm going insane," I told myself, and I thought I was. Honestly, it wouldn't be a surprise, but more of a relief, an explanation of how I had held on to my sanity for this long.

But I didn't have time to brood. Midnight was the date and I had to keep it. I turned my head away from the gaping window in my office, and scanned the room for any signs of life. My office was actually pretty large, but right now the lights weren't on. It didn't matter. I could see in the dark. I had been trained for that.

Mokuba lay sleeping on the couch in front of my spotlessly clean desk. I looked at him lying there in an undisturbed peace. He couldn't stay there the whole night, I had work to do. But how I hated to wake him. My little brother was one of the innocents, life still held secrets from him. However, he was one of the few who lived so near the edge of the lie, it was practically a miracle he hadn't found out about it yet, (although I don't believe in miracles). He would know eventually. I couldn't keep hiding it. Sooner or later he would either find out by himself or I would be forced to tell him. The thought sickened me and I thrust it from my mind.

I went over to where he slept, (maneuvering the desk easily and without much noise. I had been trained for that, too, walking soundlessly), and put my hand on his skinny shoulder. "Mokuba," I whispered. "We have to go home." He didn't move, so I shook him a little. "Mokuba, wake up." His eyelids fluttered and he stared at me through half closed eyes and moaned, "Alright…" He wasn't going to get up and I really had to hurry. It was now 11:34.

I took Mokuba into my arms and carried him to the door. He didn't even stir, he was really asleep.

Out the door we went and into the office waiting room. My secretary had long since fled the scene; her chair was neatly poised behind the desk like it had been in that position for a while. I reasoned that there probably wasn't a soul left in entire 76th floored building. Lucky me, I was on the 76th floor. But, the elevators still worked and I rode that down the remaining 75 floors. It took a while, but the elevator was silent except for Mokuba's even breathing. I enjoy silence, it clears the mind. But that night my mind was too clouded with thoughts of the night's work ahead of me to have even a shadow of clarity in it.

I keep a limousine ready and waiting in front of Kaiba Corp. building at all times, in just such an emergency that I needed to go home immediately. By the time I reached the first floor, left the building and got into the limo, it was already 11:39. I needed to hurry.

The limousine driver is an insomniac like me. He stood, leaning on the long black car with his arms folded, smoking a cigarette. When he saw me coming, he flicked the butt and went to open the door for me. Without thanking him I laid Mokuba into the open door and waited for him to go to his designated spot in the driver's seat. Before he did he said, cajolingly, "Long night ahead of you, Mr. Kaiba?" He had no idea.

I gave him a look of pure un-emotion and the knowing smile on his face dropped and he scurried to the driver's door. I got in the car and waited for it to start. I hadn't meant to be that apathetic to him; he was one of the nicest drivers I had. But the weight of the work hung on me like seven dead bodies hanging around my neck. Seven. That was a bit much, but I had done hits like that before. Oh yes, I remember. I couldn't forget.

We arrived at my mansion. The time: 11:46. Shit. I needed to rush like an insane man.

Not showing any emotion at all, I picked up Mokuba walked up the path to my front door, leaving the driver to handle the car without any thanks.

My home loomed before me like a burden. It was too big. I hated it sometimes, it and the memories it held. I took out my set of keys, in frantic calmness, and unlocked the door. Of course, the lights were never on unless someone was in the house, so pitch black stared back at me.

Flicking on the light I deposited Mokuba on the couch in the living room above us, (there was no real time to tuck him in bed), and ran up the stairs to my room.

My room was one of the largest rooms in the house. It had once been Gozaburo's, so that probably answers your question of why. I hated my room, maybe because it was big, maybe because of the reason why it was big. I don't know.

The closet next to my horribly huge bed held nothing but clothes of the blackest colors. Trench coats, turtle necks, and pants were all black. I needed nothing else.

I changed into my typical attire for work as I was about to do: Black turtle neck, black cotton pants, black jacket to wear over the turtle neck, black boots, and black gloves able to grip things easily. I studied myself in the mirror across from me. Crazily perfect for what I was about to do. You see, black is the color of stealth and death, the two things essential to my night work. I can creep ever so easily through the darkness wearing the color. The things that made me noticeable were my hair and my eyes. Chestnut brown hair and shocking blue eyes are not favorable characteristics of stealth. For that I hated them. They were the things that put me on the edge, made me stand out when I needed to be unrecognizable. The option was always this: dye your goddamn hair and wear contacts the color of mud, hide them, you bastard! But I never did. My features, though they were the one thing that made everything dangerous, were also the one thing that gave me a link to me other life. The life with Mokuba in it when there was no death. The life with my mother and father…alive…people with hair and eyes that were like mine and proud of it…other sets of cerulean blue eyes staring back at me with smiles…

But that life was no more. I was stupid for wanting to keep them.

My last touches of clothing were a hat and scarf, to cover the hated hair and the bottom half of my face, just to be absolutely sure. Surely no one would know who I was just by my eyes, of course…

The time was against me. 11:53. This was the closest I had cut it in my entire history. I cursed myself and went to the secret door that no one knew about behind my bed. It had a handle meant to match the maroon wall-paper and was only about the size of your average four-year-old child. I pulled the handle and took out my weapon. My katana. The black-wooden sheath and hilt glinted at me in the dark, (for I never used lights in this room). Checking unnecessarily, I unsheathed the blood-lusting killer with a quick schwing. It was still there in perfect condition: Long, silver metal sharpened and crafted to be the best it could be in such a cause. The imprint on the side of the blade was writing in Japanese kanji. It read, "He takes down his enemy and burns his soul." I had the same saying in kanji tattooed on my spine. Of course, no one knew of either. Me and my fucking secrets. I sheathed the blade again, hung it on my belt, and walked out of my room.

Before leaving my mansion, I did two things: Put a kitchen knife in my boot and grabbed a black bag and stuck it in my jacket. I would need at least one of them tonight.

Then I was out of my mansion to do what I hated to do. The thing I loathed most of all out of entire life, my one secret and my one truth: My job as an assassin for the Mafia.

Why, you may wonder? Well, it's not that hard to comprehend. After I killed my stepfather and took control of his company, one of the best and worst things I've done in my life, I needed another company. Badly. I needed it and I was willing to get it any way I could. Even if it meant signing up as an assassin for some of the darkest people in the world. So, in a way, I commissioned myself for the job I despised. Ironic, no?

Of course the Black Hand was willing to give me anything I wanted after I gave them what they wanted. "Pay and receive" they called it. To them, it was perfectly fair, but I was the one doing the killing of innocents, the grunt work.

Being an assassin came easily for me in a sense of physical ability. My stepfather had trained me very well for it, although he never actually used my talents. (That was one of the things wrong with him. He had all this, he created a monster and never used it, only to be destroyed by it. How can someone think a man like that is sane?) The only problem with it was the emotional and mental blockage I had with the work. Sure, I pushed my own father out a window in order to get power, but killing just wasn't a passion of mine.

But I am indebted, now. I had gotten a company, a rich, famous company, and I had what I wanted, sort of. But the deal was that they could call on me whenever they wanted. Whenever, meaning even after the company had been given to me. I was trapped. I had to do this or risk not only my own death, but the death of Mokuba and my company. Or worse. Being left alive with no company and no Mokuba, broken and cast out. The thought is enough to silence my verbal protests to my keepers.

So, I, Seto Kaiba, President of Kaiba Corporations and richest man in the world, am forced to whore my unwanted abilities of life-taking to some crazed, evil Mafia. Shameful, yes. Degrading, yes. Bearable, no.

The residence on Cherry Street was a quiet place. It was actually a house, not an apartment building, (rare in my town). The unbelievably fortunate thing about it was that it was all alone on a block, with absolutely no neighbors or people to spy on me while I did this. (Although I did a quick scope of the place before entering the house, just to make sure.)

I walked up to the front door, ironically reminded of the time, not a moment ago, when I stood before my own door with my sleeping brother in my arms. I checked the door knob, (I was wearing gloves so I didn't have to worry about fingerprints). Amazingly, it was unlocked. I couldn't believe it. The fool had pissed off one of the most dangerous groups in the world, and here he was leaving his door unlocked. So stupid.

I opened the door and crept inside, the guilty rush of trespassing taking me. As I expected, not a light on in the entire place. Everyone was asleep, (the Mafia had given me a report that told me two people lived in this house, the man that offended them and his wife. I was told his wife was a vain woman who slept somewhere else when she got the chance, so she would not be there when I was. Good. Only one man to dispose of). No noise was made as the door opened and as I walked on the carpeted floor of this man's house. I could make myself light enough to allow for no sound at all. But I stopped walking when I entered, because I wanted a look around.

The place was very spacious. A beautiful dining room stood to my right, (complete with chandelier and wooden dinette set and everything), and a living room the size of my bedroom stood to my left, (with leather couches and footstools, glassed curios, and full-sized paintings hung on the walls). The guy was loaded. But not as much as me. I remained unimpressed.

A staircase stood in front of me. I guessed that lead to the bedroom where I would find the victim. I took reached it and slowly, silently, ascended it. At the top there was a hallway, (long but with only one closed door and about six or seven open ones). I automatically wondered how the guy lived in this gigantic place with only him and his cheating wife. Then I cursed myself. I lived a mansion about three times the size of this with only my little brother and I. How could I possibly criticize him?

I looked in all the rooms. Bathrooms, bedrooms, guest rooms, and even a closet, (the closed door). I got to one bedroom where the man slept. He was already in bed and everything. This would be easy. I crept in the room to the defenseless gentleman. Standing above him I scrutinized him. Bald, fat, conditioned, and snoring. Just the kind to piss off the Mafia. The report said his name was Theodore L., (I never got last names. They were "unimportant").

What happened next might have been written out of a book. It took heartlessness to make me continue with it. I transferred my mind out of body and watched the scenes from the sidelines.

My hand grabbed his mouth and he awoke with a start. Looking at me and my candid blue eyes I felt him struggling and trying to screaming but I held his face tightly.

"You have insulted the wrong people. You know who I mean." The same thing I always said.

"Mmmmm…Mmmm!" He shook his head.

"Yes. And now you must pay." I unsheathed my katana. His round eyes widened in fear when he saw it. I pushed him down on the bed with my other hand, (the one over his mouth), and held the sword above his neck. He was still struggling, but he could not defend. The sad, degrading thing about my work hit me suddenly and I faltered. Guilty, picked-at emotions attacked my heart like an attack of worms on open food.

The fat man saw my hesitation! "Please…" I struggled between my hand, trying to play on my falter. I hated him, then. He had seen my weakness, my heart being eaten.

So he was no more.

I wiped my blade on my pants, pausing slightly at the kanji, and then sheathed it forcefully.

Covered in his hot blood, I opened my jacket and put his head in my bag. Done. Finally.

My shoes were the only things not bloody. I could leave without making any tracks. I left his body on the bed.

I walked down the stairs and to the door. I had to change gloves to cover my trail, (my ones were no longer fresh). Not a problem, I carried an extra pair in my jacket pocket.

A Mafia thug in a black suit and tie with sunglasses on was waiting for me outside. "Is it done?" he asked in a gruff voice.

I nodded and gave him the bag.

He took it and said, "Good work. Go home and sleep well." There was a black van waiting to take him away. I stood at the front of a dead man's house all alone and began walking solemnly back to my mansion.

My mind didn't re-enter my body until I was in shower at home. It hit me then, what I had done with a jolt and I sighed.

Like always, the guilt came back.

When would I ever be rid of it? When would it stop?

When could I tell someone of the horrors I committed with a heavy heart and have them understand? Never. I was stupid to think I could have that.

Love and understanding just were not things assassins got to experience.