He needed James dead. Like, serve his head on a silver platter dead. Like, as dead as Abraham Lincoln dead. Get it yet? Yes? Well, great great greeeaaatttt granny kinda dead. The kind of great granny dead that some rich white European would speak about over tea, kind of dead. Overkill, I know, but that was how Ambrose felt.

James, the sick son of a Stone Age motherfucker, had stolen everything important. His gracious, wonderful, amazing, beautiful money. And the other shit he supposes. Well, either way. He needed James gone. For good. And not just a simple beat in the ass, or gentle scolding. A full blown movie death.

Now, weren't James and Ambrose friends? Ex-situationships? Assistant? Anyway! Ambrose couldn't give a hoot n' holler who James Roy was. He stole what was important, besides his heart? But his ethereal money? The audacity! Who does James Roy think he is?! A total turn off, that's who. And Ambrose was infuriated.

Who steals money anyway! Well... that's different for professionals! That's their job. Last time Ambrose checked, James's job wasn't supposed to take his shit, breach his systems, and dip! That's not how this worked! It was unethical, stupid, and sloppy. All things Ambrose would improvise on, but not associate with. It laughed at what Ambrose was.

Walking up to the roof after taking a big ass heap of stairs like he was fucking Miles Morales. He opened the large metal door to find the assassin with one of those unsteady white flip tables, their sniper set up as they sat in a wry chair. Now, why the hell was the assassin of all people using such shitty equipment? Like, GODDDDD.

That's completely besides the point. Ambrose slammed a thick wad of cash in front of them. Leaning against the flimsy table with a devious smirk played across his snow white face, his pearly whites shining like the damn sun itself. The cool air whipping through his hair, from the height.

"I want you to kill James Roy." He demanded, ready to bargain for any amount they wanted. And a kiss of course.