The Art of the Con (???xMReader)

Epilogue

(a/n: Here it is y'all. The final upload. Well, the final official upload. I have another thing I will post later at its own pace but it's not relevant to the story. But for now, onwards to that new horizon!)

Y/N sat at a shaded table outside a café near his apartment in the Puerta del Sol. He chose that distrito as it offered busy tourist-friendly streets, an active nightlife, and it was close to the Museo Nacional del Prado and other major political and cultural buildings. Being the symbolic center of Madrid, Spain, the streets stretched outwards, expanding like the rays of the sun.

He adjusted the tanned fedora on his head, slightly tipping it forward to hide his gaze from any part of the prying public. Despite the Meditteranean climate, he donned an impeccably tailored suit: a beige jacket and trousers with a white dress shirt underneath. A con artist still had to dress the part despite the conflicting weather.

He leaned back into his metal-framed chair as a pair of attractive, fashionably dressed women sauntered by, chatting in Spanish. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of someone's flowing, ombré hair.

Dahyun.

He shot upright in his seat, his eyes darting up to catch a glimpse of the passerby. It was merely one of the two girls from earlier: a brunette. Wrong person. Embarrassed, he threw a cheeky smile. The girl laughed and swished her skirt flirtatiously, whispering something to her friend, who giggled in response.

He let out a sigh. It was too late to stop his plan. Once it was set in motion, he had already made the resolve to not turn back, no matter what it takes. He allowed his head to fall forward, banging it against the table lightly. Why was his luck so bad? He groaned softly, the table slowly pressing into his forehead. 

He sniffled. The light scent of cucumber wafted into his nose. Might've been a bit of lemon in there. A familiar scent... almost nostalgic. Two arms rolled up behind him, engulfing him in a soft swaddle of silken cloth.

"You die and the first thing you do is look at other women?" whispered a voice in his ear.

He knew this voice. He knew that tone. There was only one person he knew that would tease him like this and be this touchy with him. Her name rolled off his lips, tumbling out of his mouth.

"Sana." 

Her head rested on the crook of his neck, craning over to look at his face.

"Hai-hai," she said before scampering over to the opposite side of the table.

She wore a more formal attire than her typical style, sporting a beautiful white suit dress edged in black borders. With a motorized handheld fan in her grasp, she collapsed on the seat to cool herself, occasionally turning the fan toward Y/N. Beads of sweat were accumulating underneath her jaw. Y/N, however, appeared to be immune to the heavy heat.

His cool appearance hid his anxious nerves, jumping around inside him. He hadn't expected to see Sana ever again, definitely not this soon.

"So how'd you―?"

Sana held up a finger to silence him.

"Wine first. I'm parched."

Glancing around, she located a waiter near the cafe entrance and signaled. Y/N struggled to remain patient while an order was placed. His right leg bounced up and down excessively accompanied by an anxious look on his face.

Once they were alone again, he leaned forward and pressed once more.

"So what gave it away?"

"That medical report included an image of your 'corpse'." She smirked as she quoted the word with her fingers. "Personal effects included a .45 bullet that supposedly hit your abdominal aorta and you bled out, which then raises the question: how'd they get it out?"