They Who Slaughtered Hope 🌈| Slow Updates/Editing

Chapter 06

┏━━━༻✿༺━━━┓

𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚡

┗━━━༻✿༺━━━┛

𝘛𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

Lennox felt like a hypocrite.

How could he, a man of illusional class, insult his benefactor about his fashion choice when he was dressed the same way earlier?

Now Lennox was stalking the person in question, eyes focused over the rooftop of the Happenstance for a means to ascend the building's cream walls. Looking around, he could identify every flower—and a few shrubs—within a metre of him. Even the humid dark had no damper on the scent of the flowers.

"There seems to be a lot of footholds, I just can't make much noise, or someone will come looking in this direction. Out in the open like this? I'd be caught for sure," Lennox thought aloud, taking in the flowers' sweet scents.

He extended his arm, reaching towards a windowsill to test its strength. Satisfied, Lennox hoisted himself onto it, grabbing hold of the next ledge, and the next after that.

Without warning, the rumbling of a distant voice rose up from the far-off trees halfway through his ascent.

Lennox's head snapped towards the phantom sound, his eyes darting every which way, body frozen in place. He slowly glanced behind him, coming face to face with a blinding light. The florist squinted in pain as his eyes were assaulted by a flashlight.

It was held by whom Lennox presumed to be a hired hand, one probably employed by the restaurant. "Hey! You there! What are you doing? If you don't get down from there right now, you'll be considered trespassing and—"

He was indeed trespassing. But nothing bad could come of it if he was never caught.

He continued his upward climb, his inner law-abiding self fighting a losing battle against Lennox's desperate need for funds. After a small struggle, he pulled himself up onto the glass roof framed with black metal.

The florist gazed up, only to be met not with a striking light, but a gun to his head. Not the warmest welcome from his patron.

He couldn't help but roll his eyes. Shooting Lennox now would be foolhardy. "Hello there. Mind giving me a hand?"

Watching through narrow eyes, his buyer hesitantly pulled the weapon back, holding out his free hand.

Lennox seized it, taking note of the hidden strength the gesture held. "So, what was your name again? I seem to have forgotten."

"Uh... it's Ren."

The fair-haired herbalist barely noticed his client's brief wince after he uttered his name. "No last name? That's alright. The name's Lennox. Ren, was it? I'd like my money now."

His patron—Ren, as he was now called, appeared confused momentarily. Until he retrieved the cursed stack of euros from his coat pocket. Lennox's yellow-green irises practically sparkled. Maybe with greed, maybe with necessity. He couldn't tell at this point. He could keep telling himself it was for Chase, for the greater good, but was that true? Would this money genuinely equal happiness and contentment?

Then, before the transaction could be completed, the watchman decided that he would, in fact, try to catch Lennox. He waddled over to the wall, ladder and pistol in hand. "I'm not afraid to shoot, ya damn punk." The guard raised his handgun, scrambling up to the rooftop. As best a middle-aged man could.