My Heart Is Black | HXH

by Leneyytunes

Summary:

In their eyes, you were the definition of perfection. Without you, their world seems to go dark. So they want you for themselves, whatever reason it may be— even if it meant they will dirty further their already dirty hands.

Even if it meant to destroy the whole world to find you. To find their girl and kill everyone who dares to take you from them.

Notes:

Hello!

To those who read the MHIB before I removed it and transfer to a new book: yes it is the same book and same plot. I just think I’ll transfer it to a new book so that the old and new readers will not be confused, because when I decided to rewrite it I added too many scenes that I think it’s best to revise the whole story. So here we goes nothing!

==

I do not own Hunter x Hunter nor the picture I used for the book cover. I can't find the original picture but I find it on Pinterest. I only own this fanfiction story. Don't copy or plagiarize my story. Thank you!

 

➡️ Official Song Story:

 

Can’t help falling in love with you

 

➡️ This series has no update schedule but comments, likes, and reviews will motivate me.

➡️ Sorry for the grammatical errors. I don't have time to proofread them but when I do, I will change them. Just tell me if I missed something. Thank you!

Chapter 1: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

---

 

 

Rain pattered steadily against the rusted metal roof, the only sound in a dim, vacant room. Now and then, the scuttling of rats broke the silence—an unwelcome echo in an already decaying space.

 

Illumi sighed. He already had lots of problems in his hand and an escaped target is not what he wants right now. It was very unusual for him to have someone escaped from his grasp. He was trained to be the perfect son and a perfect brother. He was trained to do all the missions giving to him perfectly  because he is Illumi Zoldyck, the first born of the infamous Zoldyck Family, and perfection is in his name.

 

As he searched for clues, he dialed his phone with practiced indifference. Then, something shimmered faintly in the corner of his eye. A single beam of moonlight struck a tarnished trash can, revealing a glint of metal.

 

An engagement ring.

His breath caught.

The same ring he had given her, one year ago.

 

Their union had never been romantic—it was an arrangement between two powerful families, forged in strategy, not affection. One family operated in the light; the other thrived in shadows. The match had been ideal. Unavoidable.

He gave her everything: luxury, security, loyalty. He even aided her missions, shouldering burdens that were not his. He had done his part. More than that, he had done hers.

 

And still… she left .

Him.

Alone.

Without a word.

 

Betrayal— is the word he despised most.

 

Illumi’s control slipped. His foot lashed out, shattering the bedside table. Splinters scattered across the floor. His nen surged, thick with fury—an invisible beast coiling in the room, thirsting for blood.

 

He stood in the ruins of his own silence, unfamiliar emotion twisting through him. Confusion. Obsession. Rage.

 

Anyone else would have died for this offense. But her?

 

No—not her. Not his [Firstname].

 

He would find her. He would break her. Slowly. Painfully. Until she understood that her place was beside him. That escape was an illusion. That betrayal was unforgivable.

 

‘Yes’ , he thought. That would be a fitting punishment. That would be justice.

 

But time moved against him. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Still, nothing. She was slippery—ghostlike. His trackers turned up dead, or worse, empty-handed.

 

Just like he was now.

 

The line clicked. A voice answered.

“Illumi?”

 

“It’s me, Dad,” he said, slipping the ring into his pocket. His gaze drifted to the window, eyes narrowing at the moonlit night. “Do we have any assignments requiring a Hunter license?”

 

Silva paused. “Why?”

 

“It gives broader access. I assumed you knew that.” His tone was flat, but the sarcasm was pointed.

 

“You know what I meant.” The tension hung thick before Silva’s voice cut through it again. “This is about her, isn’t it? I told you—there’s no need to honor that contract. Her family broke it. It’s void. Just like any employer who breaches terms—we walk away.”

 

“I’m not doing this for the contract.”

 

“Then what? Are you telling me you’re in love with her?”

 

“No.” His voice dropped, cold and commanding. “I want her to feel what betrayal tastes like. I want her to learn what it means to cross the Zoldycks.”

 

Then he heard a sighed. His father replied, low and final:

 

“Remember who you are, Illumi.”

 

“I do,” he said. “And I won’t forget.”

Chapter 2: 1 | 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞

Notes:

Hello,

From this point on until the very end, Please refer to number in "

|

" for Chapter number so there's no confusion

Sunlight fractured through the high, narrow window beside the bed, cascading over sterile white walls in golden shards that glimmered like broken halos. The air in the room smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron. On the steel worktable, bottles sat neatly aligned in foam cartons, each label turned just so—evidence of a mind obsessed with symmetry, with control.

Fushijima had always taken pride in that control.

His room—immaculate, orderly—was more than a workspace. It was a bastion against the madness that so often encroached from the world outside. Every sharp corner and polished edge reflected his belief in logic, in safety through preparation.

But now, caged in the dark cavity of his custom-built medicine cabinet, none of that order mattered. Not the reinforced locks, not the soundproof walls. Not the taser beneath his pillow or the panic button hidden beneath his desk.

He was trembling.

Curled up tight, spine jammed against cold particleboard, fingers clamped over his mouth to stifle the shallow, ragged breaths that refused to slow. Sweat soaked through his dress shirt, plastering it to his back. His knees ached from the cramped position. Somewhere between fear and shame, he realized he’d wet himself.

A sound—barely audible—broke the tense silence.

A soft creak. No more than a whisper of movement.

His breath hitched.

“Tsk tsk… Uncle Fushi,” came the voice, syrupy sweet and sickeningly amused. “No one likes a coward.”

The words slithered into the air, curling around him like smoke. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lower lip until blood rose, coppery and thick, on his tongue.

Then came the crash.

Glass shattered somewhere behind the cabinet door, followed by the high-pitched skitter of shards cascading across the linoleum like chimes caught in a hurricane. The sound ricocheted through the room, louder than it had any right to be, cruel in its finality.

Fushijima wanted to scream—to beg, to bargain. But the image of what she’d done to his family silenced him more effectively than any gag. He’d watched the footage: security cam glitches, blurry stills, and then—sudden void. Limbs. Blood. Gone.

He was the last.

The rhythmic clack of heels on the linoleum floor echoed like gunshots. Measured. Mocking. Each step a countdown.

Then—nothing.

The silence that followed was unnatural, suffocating. It pressed in from every corner of the room, a vacuum that consumed even the sound of his breath. His heartbeat pounded so hard in his chest he feared it would give him away.

The voice returned, low and almost disappointed, now just inches beyond the cabinet.

“If you didn’t want me to find you,” she murmured, her tone sliding into something darker, “you shouldn’t have made yourself so loud.”

Panic surged through his limbs.

He inhaled sharply.

Too late.

The cabinet door exploded open, slamming against the wall with a thunderous crack. Light flooded the cramped space, blinding him momentarily. Then—pain.

A hand shot in, unnaturally fast, fingers clamping around his ankle. The grip was too strong, crushing bone and muscle like paper. He screamed, legs kicking uselessly, hands flailing against the walls of his former sanctuary.

“You’re quite immature for your age, don’t cha think?” she cooed, dragging him out inch by agonizing inch.

Even with the midday sun streaming through the window, she remained mostly a silhouette—her dark figure almost spectral. The contrast between her playful tone and the brutality of her grip was maddening.

“P-Please…” he gasped, barely able to form words through the sobs. “Let me go, I didn’t—”

“Shhhhh,” she interrupted, crouching beside him. Her breath was cold against his ear, her voice coated in silk and steel. “This is the part where you shut up.”

She yanked him forward again. A sickening crack echoed through the room as his femur snapped. He howled, writhing as pain consumed him. Blood streaked behind him, smeared in ugly patterns across the sterile floor.

“I didn’t want to break you, Fushi oji-chan,” she sang, half-lamenting, half-mocking. “But you just keep talking…”

He could barely see her face—only the silhouette of her limbs, the ripple of her dress, the slight movement as she reached up to her hair and pulled something free.

A glint. Thin. Sharp.

“No… No, I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to report your location to your father! I swear—AHHH!”

Another pop of bone giving way. His elbow this time.

“I don’t care.”

The voice was cold now. Flat. Deadly.

He saw her raise her hand again, something between her fingers—a pin, maybe, or a needle. His vision swam. The blood loss was catching up, his mind spiraling into incoherence.

“I’m not fond of forgiving.”

“Don’t—please—no—”

The last thing he felt was the hairpin driving into his temple.

Then—silence.

 

---

 

Outside, the whine of armored engines reverberated through the air, their bass rumble shaking dust from the windowsills. Birds scattered. Tires ground against asphalt as matte-black cars pulled into a perfect, unbreakable ring around the facility.

“Secure the perimeter!” barked a voice through a radio, sharp with command. “She’s inside. She is not to leave.”

From inside the building: nothing.

Until it began.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Footsteps.

But not from the door. Not from the stairwell. Not from any hallway or structure. The sound came from everywhere—and nowhere. It was too clear, too present. There was no echo, yet it carried like thunder.

The soldiers shifted, brows furrowed, hands tightening around rifles. The air turned heavier. Vision dulled. Sound thickened. A narcotic warmth seeped into their veins, as though their minds had slipped underwater, drawn into some hypnotic lull.

The main door creaked open—slow, theatrical.

A woman stepped out.

Not ran. Not fled. Walked.

White fabric fluttered in the breeze, stained down the hem in streaks of vivid crimson. Her back was bare, skin pale under the sunlight. Her hair, tousled and black as midnight, clung to her cheeks. And her eyes—

Her eyes—

Red. Burning. Alive with something terrible.

A hunger. A wrath. A curse made flesh.

Every soldier froze. Breath caught in their throats. Muscles locked. They weren’t just looking at a target. They were witnessing something. Something divine, something wrong.

She smiled.

And the spell shattered.

“Open fire!” someone roared, breaking the trance.

But before they could raise their guns, a single man stepped forward—tall, armored, face like chiseled stone.

Rupert.

One of the father’s oldest hounds. Loyal to a fault. Built like a tank, with the Nen to match.

“Hello, milady,” he said, voice calm, thick with restrained power.

“Hello, Rupert.” Her tone was light, girlish. It chilled the air.

“You’ve grown into a fine woman.”

“And you’ve grown… into an even duller dog.”

A dry chuckle. “You know illusions won’t work on me.”

She twirled a card between her fingers—one of many. At her feet, a second card flickered into view before vanishing in a whisper of smoke.

“Oh, I’m not here to trick you,” she said, eyes gleaming. “I’m just here to say goodbye.”

“You father’s coming. Personally.”

“I expected nothing less.” She stepped forward, heels cutting through the tension like scalpels. “But I won’t be here when he arrives.”

“Restrain her!” someone barked from the flank.

“Wrong move,” she whispered.

With one flick, a glowing card arced into the air, its edges humming. A second followed, slower, descending like a falling petal.

Then the world tore open.

The first card detonated in a silent bloom of blue-white light—an implosion of air pressure and Nen.

From above, crystal shards of ice erupted from the sky, whistling as they fell like the wrath of gods. Razor-thin. Bone-sharp. Unstoppable.

Screams. Blood. A chaos symphony.

Rupert moved, faster than any normal man, summoning a glowing rope of Nen, swinging it in a defensive arc.

She was gone.

Only a single card remained on the ground, its ink fading.

He turned to call out—to regroup, to retaliate—

—and saw the spear of ice a heartbeat too late.

It punched through his chest, clean and precise.

The last thing he heard was her laughter, drifting through the air like a song from another world.

Chapter 3: 2 | 𝐀 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

Notes:

Hello,

To those who read the chapter I publish earlier it was the chapter 4. HAHAHAH I got confused. Anyway, this is the original chapter 3! Sorry for the mistakes!

The estate should have been glowing.

 

Floodlights were meant to bathe the yard in gold. The pristine white walls of the mansion should have gleamed beneath the night sky. The guards, servants, luxury cars, and opulence should have marked this place as untouchable.

 

Instead, darkness reigned.

 

The lamps flickered in and out like dying stars. Blood stained the walls in grotesque patterns. Corpses littered the grounds like discarded marionettes, some without limbs, others with eyes still wide in horror. Inside, it was even worse. The mansion no longer resembled a home, but a mausoleum.

 

At the center of the main staircase, their intended target—Shirotu Fushijima—hung crucified on the wall by golden hairpins. Above his head, smeared in his own blood, a single message burned in silence:

 

Don’t even try, G.

 

“Oho~” Hisoka’s voice rang with twisted delight as he gazed upon the carnage. “This is… exquisite.”

 

Shizuku, ever calm, knelt to examine a severed arm. “Clean work. No fingerprints. No aura residue. Nothing left behind.”

 

Machi turned to their leader. “What now, Danchou?”

 

Chrollo Lucifer stepped forward, staring at the message. G… Gabriel. He didn’t speak the thought aloud, but it circled his mind like a hawk. He recognized the style, or at least the intent. Someone wanted the world to see this. Someone wanted to be known.

 

He gave his orders without looking away.

 

“Shizuku, find the item. It better be untouched. Hisoka, Feitan—clear the grounds. Kill any survivors. Shalnark, you’re with me.”

 

A chorus of quiet acknowledgments followed before the Troupe dispersed.

 

Chrollo moved slowly through the halls. Blood dragged across the polished floors like broken brushstrokes. Paintings lined the walls—fine art, expensive, soulless. He saw wealth, not emotion.

 

Then one frame caught his eye.

 

A portrait. A young girl in a black dress, porcelain skin glowing against the shadowed background. A tiara shimmered atop her dark hair. Red lips curved gently around a secret. But her eyes—vibrant, unblinking crimson—felt as if they were staring back through the canvas, daring him to flinch.

 

“Danchou,” Shalnark called, pulling Chrollo from the trance. “Look at this.”

 

The screen of Shalnark’s tablet illuminated a news update:

 

BREAKING – President Gabriel [LastName] of the United States of Saherta confirms the complete loss of his security convoy outside his cousin Shirotu Fushijima’s residence. No suspects identified. No footage recovered. A reporter on the scene was also found dead, her equipment destroyed. Gabriel has vowed retaliation and tightened protection for his family.

 

“So ‘G’ really does stand for Gabriel,” Shalnark murmured. “Whoever did this must have a personal vendetta.”

 

“Or,” Shizuku cut in, returning with Machi, “Gabriel wanted something from them… and didn’t get it.”

 

Chrollo’s eyes narrowed. “Did you recover the item?”

 

Machi shook her head. “No. The vault was opened. Nothing left but a message.”

 

“What message?”

 

She raised a photo: a single smiley face scrawled in blood— :)

 

“That’s it?” Shalnark asked, incredulous.

 

“That’s it.” Machi frowned. “It’s bait. They want us to come after them.”

 

‘Not just bold… clever,’ Chrollo mused. Whoever orchestrated this wasn’t afraid of pursuit. They were confident. Not reckless—intentional. A predator leaving breadcrumbs.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden exclamation.

 

“I can’t touch it,” Shizuku said, crouched beneath Fushijima’s corpse. “The hairpin—it’s coated in dense Nen.”

 

Shalnark attempted as well, his aura deflecting off the pin like water on glass. “Same here. Even with Reinforcement, I can’t make contact.”

 

Machi tried too. Nothing.

Feitan, arriving with Hisoka, gestured toward Chrollo. “You try, Danchou.”

 

Chrollo approached, dispelled his aura, and reached out. He expected backlash—shock, searing pain, maybe even death. But there was only a warmth, a metallic coolness settling in his palm.

 

He lifted the pin, inspecting the delicate craftsmanship. A metallic gold hairpin,embroidered with gems and pearls, the flower in the middle is painted in ancient pink. Too feminine. Too personal

The others stared in disbelief.

“Why only Danchou?” Shalnark asked Feitan.

 

“Just a hunch,” he replied, coldly.

 

“You don’t do hunches.” Machi retorted but the smaller one didn’t bother to reply.

 

“We’re done here,” Chrollo said flatly, slipping the pin into his coat. “The killer’s dangerous, yes. But they have what we want. They’ll resurface.”

 

And when they do, he thought, we’ll be ready.

 

The Troupe began to withdraw.

 

But only if they turn their head back once more, they will witness that there is one more person in the room who is successfully touching the hairpin without any pain at all.

 

Sadly, they didn’t.

---

 

 

Thunder rumbled outside as Kurapika sat at his small kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate. The warmth did little to thaw the cold knot in his chest. The news played faintly in the background—another political assassination, another bloodbath. He wasn’t surprised anymore.

BREAKING – President Gabriel [LastName] of the United States of Saherta confirms the complete loss of his security convoy outside his cousin Shirotu Fushijima’s—

 

He turned the television off mid-sentence. Enough.

 

He couldn’t stomach another massacre. Not when the memories of his own clan’s slaughter still haunted him. The stench of burning wood, the shattered glass, the twisted limbs. Their scarlet eyes ripped from their bodies. His fists clenched at the memory.

 

This world was rotting. And he wasn’t going to be part of it—not unless he had to be.

 

Kurapika stood and began tidying the table. Everything in its place. He found order where he could. Clean space, clean thoughts.

 

Then—

 

A sudden, heavy thud outside. Not thunder. He froze.

 

His hand went to the bokken leaning by the door.

 

Footsteps silent, heart alert.

 

He flung the door open, weapon raised—ready to fight.

 

But there was no enemy. Just a girl.

 

She lay collapsed on the muddy ground, barely conscious. Her white dress was soaked through, stained red with blood. She looked like she had crawled from the edge of death itself.

 

[Hair color] hair tangled around her face. Her limbs were trembling, fragile. Her chest rose and fell—barely.

 

And then he saw them—her eyes.

 

Half-lidded, dull with exhaustion—but those eyes were red. Not the luminous scarlet of his kin, filled with pride and resolve. No, these were darker, deeper—like crimson ink spilled over velvet, too unnatural to be human. There was something predatory in them, even in her weakened state. As if they had watched death… no, commanded it. They glowed faintly against her pale, blood-smeared face, a quiet, haunting defiance staring back at the world that wronged her.

 

Kurapika stared, heart twisting in confusion.

 

Who was she? Why was she here?

 

And why did her presence feel like the beginning of something he wasn’t prepared for?

 

Notes:

Hello,

It's me again. Do you guys want to be in Third person POV (She/Her), First person POV (I/Me), or Second Person POV (You)?

Chapter 4: 3 | 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐞?

Kurapika didn’t need liability in his life—not now, not when he was living and surviving on his own. He couldn’t quite understand why he allowed this girl into his space.

 

He looked at her sleeping form on his bed. He found her unconscious a few days ago, collapsed just outside his door during a thunderstorm. She hadn’t woken up since. His instincts were conflicted. Part of him told him to send her away. Another part—colder, more calculating—suggested he might need her.

 

For revenge.

 

But what could a girl with no identity, no home, no family, and barely the strength to stay alive possibly offer him in his war against the Spiders?

 

He sighed, got up, and changed the damp towel resting on her forehead. Her temperature was still elevated, but gradually stabilizing. What bothered him most was the duration of her fever. There were no injuries on her body, no signs of trauma. A regular human, after days soaked in freezing rain, might develop a fever for a few days—maybe a week at worst. But this?

 

It had been more than a week.

 

Kurapika sat at the edge of the bed, towel in hand, quietly studying her face.

 

It was something he found himself doing often. Against his better judgment.

 

She was too perfect.

 

Her skin, pale and smooth like cold porcelain, glowed faintly beneath the faint lamplight. Fever added a rosy tint to her cheeks, enhancing the contrast. Her lips were curved like a painter’s stroke—full, red as blooming roses, parted slightly with each breath. Her nose was delicate and symmetrical, neither too sharp nor too soft. Everything about her felt… crafted. Like she’d been carved out of marble, sculpted rather than born.

 

Kurapika’s eyes wandered upward to her closed lids. Her lashes were long and thick, resting over her skin like brushstrokes on canvas. She didn’t look human. She looked like a statue—something precious and dangerous, as if beauty itself had taken root in a curse.

 

And then—

 

Her eyes opened.

 

Half-lidded.

 

Watching him.

 

And not in the blood-red eyes. Not the same crimson fire as the Kurta clan. No. Hers were darker. Twisted. Sinister. Like wine that had gone bitter. A bloodshot hue that carried no warmth—only power. Only ruin.

 

But in [eye color] eyes. 

And they were staring right at him.

 

Wait—what?!

 

Kurapika flinched, caught off-guard. She was awake.

 

“You like what you’re seeing?” she murmured, her voice a hoarse whisper that still managed to carry. There was a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips.

 

He scrambled back a step. “I—I didn’t mean to invade your space, sorry,” he said quickly, trying to compose himself.

 

She tried to sit up but faltered, wincing from the effort. Her body was still weak—exhausted by the storm, or something else. Nen depletion, maybe. Or the power that burned behind those eyes.

 

Kurapika moved instinctively to support her, helping her sit upright. Once she was stable, he stepped back, giving her distance.

 

A long silence settled between them.

 

Then she broke it. “Who are you?”

 

“Kurapika,” he replied. “You?”

 

She blinked slowly. “Where am I?”

 

He frowned slightly. She ignored his question but he answered hers anyway. “You’re in my home. I found you unconscious outside, in the middle of the storm.”

 

She looked down at herself—at the oversized black shirt she wore. Beneath it, a pair of boxers snug against her thighs. Her gaze hardened.

 

“You changed my clothes? All of them?”

 

Kurapika swallowed and met her eyes. “Yes. I had no choice. You were burning up and soaked to the bone. If I hadn’t—” He exhaled. “I promise I didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. A soft glow shimmered at her right hand where a tarot card was beginning to manifest, invisible to him. Ready to judge.

 

“I see,” she said coldly. And then, more softly: “I’m [Firstname].”

 

---

 

Kurapika slammed his mug down, the sharp clink reverberating through the small room. The table shook, papers fluttered. He rubbed his temples in frustration.

 

She was pacing again.

 

Back and forth in his peripheral vision, humming to herself. He couldn’t focus, not with her presence so loud, so alive. His gaze drifted to the growing mountain of shopping bags tossed carelessly near the wall.

 

“Hey, Pika-chaaaan ~ what do you think I should wear?”

 

It had been nearly a month since she woke. Their relationship had been awkward and cautious at first. They exchanged only the most necessary words. Neither pried. Neither volunteered. It suited Kurapika just fine—until this started happening.

 

“Before you worry about outfits, maybe clean up your mess first?” he said dryly.

 

She pouted, childishly offended, then began picking up her mess.

 

“Fine!”

 

Kurapika stood to help. He noticed the price tags—numbers that made his monthly budget look laughable. Fabric finer than anything he’d touched. Names of elite designers even the mafia coveted. His eyes widened momentarily before he forced himself to look neutral.

 

“How did you pay for these?” he asked.

 

“Oh, you know~ just from the guys I spent time with,” she answered casually. “Guess they loved me enough to spoil me.”

 

“You… spend time with guys? So you’re… I mean—sorry if this sounds rude—but are you a—?”

 

“A whore?” she finished for him, rolling her eyes.

 

Kurapika said nothing, awkward and tense.

 

“Whores sleep with anyone because they have to. I don’t.” Her voice dropped into something lower, silkier. “I might need money, but I always have a choice. I’d rather die than let a monkey touch me. My standards are—veryyy high.”

 

Kurapika blinked. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

 

She waved it off. “I never let anyone touch me. Let alone sleep with me. Just a few tricks, some illusions, maybe a little charm, and they give me what I want.”

 

She moved toward the large cabinet in the corner of his bedroom, inspecting it as though it were a rare antique. She looked satisfied. Strangely… at home.

 

His house was small, modest, built only for one—but somehow, she made it feel full. Warmer. As if she belonged. The thought unsettled him.

 

She walked into the kitchen to make food while the news played in the background.

 

“President [Lastname] of the United States of Saherta announces the biggest auction next year in Yorknew City, welcoming leaders and elites worldwide. However, his eldest daughter, Raziel, will reportedly not attend—”

 

Click.

 

She turned off the TV and tossed the remote to Kurapika, who caught it midair.

 

“What was that for?” he asked.

 

“Nothing in that news is worth hearing. Politicians are just parasites.”

 

Kurapika scowled. “The [Lastname] family is different.”

 

She turned. “And why is that?”

 

“They’re healers. Sages. They’ve helped countless people—”

 

“—in exchange for massive amounts of money,” she snapped. “Pleaseee.”

 

“At least they don’t kill and torture to get what they want,” he bit back, venom creeping into his tone.

 

The room froze. Tension heavy between them, like glass straining under pressure.

 

“I’m a [Lastname],” she said firmly.

 

His expression softened.

 

“I know.”

 

She blinked. “What? How?”

 

“The birthmark. Lower left on your back.” He looked away. “I didn’t mean to see it. But I figured you didn’t want me to know. I’m sorry.”

 

She was silent.

 

That mark… every member of her bloodline was born with it. Like a divine script etched by some ancient prophet—part celestial map, part curse.

 

Kurapika sighed. “It wouldn’t be fair if you knew something about me but I didn’t return it.”

 

He turned, facing her fully. “I’m a Kurta. The last of my clan.”

 

She stared. “Why are you telling me this now?”

 

“Because I want to be fair.”

 

She folded her arms. “I already knew. Your eyes turned scarlet when I broke your favorite vase. I thought you’d kill me.”

 

He blinked, then chuckled. “Oh. Right. That.”

 

She smiled faintly. “To each their own.”

 

He returned it. “To each their own.”

Notes:

Should I add guidance or reference for your whole family? There are lots of new names will be mentioned in the future and I don’t want you guys to be confused.

Chapter 5: 4 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 [𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞] - 𝐎𝐟 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

The air in the makeshift safehouse, a forgotten corner of a sprawling black market outpost, hung thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the faint, sweet scent of illicit dealings. Dust motes danced in the sparse beams of light piercing the grimy, boarded-up windows, illuminating the rough-hewn crates stacked like unstable towers and the discarded remnants of countless transactions. Seven members of the Phantom Troupe, their shadows long and distorted in the dimness, occupied the space with an almost predatory ease.

 

"Boss, the [Lastname] family is attending next year's auction," Shalnark announced, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of distant market chatter. He flicked his phone screen toward Chrollo, the display a bright, jarring rectangle against the gloom. "News says Raziel won't be there, but she might—"

A swift, almost imperceptible jab to his ribs cut him off. Machi's elbow, sharp and intentional, silenced him with a wince and a sharp intake of breath. She didn't need to speak; the glint in her narrowed eyes was warning enough. The last thing they needed was to jinx the atmosphere, to disrupt the delicate balance of their current repose.

 

Chrollo Lucifer, perched on an overturned crate that served as an impromptu throne, didn't outwardly react. His dark lashes cast subtle shadows across his high cheekbones as his eyes, cool and unreadable, narrowed fractionally on the screen. He said nothing, yet every member of the Troupe felt it—the sudden spike of tension that permeated the stale air the moment her name surfaced:

 

Raziel [Lastname].

The second daughter of President Gabriel [Lastname].

A formidable three-star Hunter.

Advisor to the Ten Dons.

A golden-eyed sage, one of the very few Nen users alive capable of matching Chrollo's own formidable strength.

 

Her absence over the last year had left a gaping hole in the intricate web of the criminal underworld, a vacuum of power that had been unnervingly quiet. Once, she had hunted them relentlessly, her presence a relentless pressure, like a pack of hounds cornering cornered wolves. Her determined pursuit had cost him two of his own. It had been a long, brutal game of cat and mouse between them—always close, never quite culminating in a decisive end. And just when he'd anticipated her next strike, she had simply vanished without a trace.

 

Nobunaga leaned back against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest, a cynical smirk playing on his lips. "She's been missing a year. Maybe she finally bit the dust?"

"Doubtful," Pakunoda said from the deeper shadows, her voice a low, knowing rumble that seemed to vibrate with unspoken truths. "She's not the type to die quietly."

"Unless she's planning a surprise," Uvogin grinned, his massive frame radiating raw, untamed power, his knuckles audibly cracking as he flexed his hands.

"For a year?" Shalnark scoffed, having recovered from Machi's subtle reprimand. "She's good, but even she can't stay quiet for that long. Besides, she tried that before. Didn't work."

 

Seven of the Troupe had converged on this outpost, their magpie instincts leading them to scavenge treasure like restless scavengers. Feitan had arrived first, a wraith in the gloom, looting on pure instinct, only to find the others already picking clean the vaults. Now, regrouped in their borrowed sanctuary, amidst the scattered spoils, the talk of Raziel had effectively silenced their usual boisterous banter.

Even Machi, typically quiet and observant, offered a thought. "It's not just her. Almost every [Lastname] has gone silent. Only the President is still making appearances. It feels like they're hiding something." Her voice was a low murmur, but her gaze, sharp as her Nen threads, scanned the faces around her.

 

Chrollo agreed silently. Too many loose ends.

 

The [Lastname] clan was more than just a family; they were a global dynasty, their influence as pervasive as the air they breathed. Healers of legend. Warriors of myth. Bearers of golden eyes so vivid they were said to rival gemstones—one of the Seven Most Beautiful Eye Colors in the world, rivaled only by the Kurta's crimson ones. But unlike the Kurta, [Lastname] eyes didn't require rage or grief to reveal their brilliance; their striking golden hue was simply their normal state.

 

And Raziel?

Raziel wasn’t the type to die in an accident.

 

Unless I’m the one who kills her, Chrollo thought coldly. No one else deserved that victory.

After all, Fushijima's recent, brutal death—barely a month ago—was undeniable proof that chaos stirred within the heart of the [Lastname] house. And chaos, to the Phantom Troupe, always meant opportunity.

 

"We should still go," Feitan muttered, arms crossed, his eyes slits in the dim light, a low hum of impatience emanating from him.

"Of course," Uvogin agreed heartily, a wide, predatory smile stretching his lips. "We're thieves, not farmers. Can't skip the biggest auction of the decade, right, Danchou?"

Chrollo finally pushed off the crate, his figure unfolding with an unhurried grace that commanded attention. He stood, casting a long, commanding shadow across the grimy floor. "Raziel's disappearance is no longer our primary concern. If she's at the auction, we end her. If not, we proceed. We've given her enough time to play queen."

 

A heavy silence followed his decree—a testament to his absolute authority—until Pakunoda spoke again, her voice surprisingly casual, as if recalling a minor detail. "I recall something... isn't the [Lastname] family in contract with the Zoldycks? One of them was engaged, right?"

 

Chrollo froze mid-step, the casual grace draining from his posture. His stillness made the others subtly flinch, a collective ripple of unease passing through the group. His eyes—cool, unreadable moments before—shifted almost imperceptibly, like a complex mechanism clicking into precise alignment.

 

That engagement.

 

The announcement two years ago had rippled through the criminal underworld, sending shockwaves that had threatened to unravel established hierarchies. People had rioted in the streets. Politicians barked impotent threats. Mafia factions, sensing weakness, had threatened bloodshed. The [Lastname]s had always been untouchable idols, paragons of virtue and power, cloaked in an aura of pristine reputation. So why, everyone had whispered, would they bind themselves to the Zoldycks—a family of assassins utterly devoid of conscience?

 

The protests had nearly collapsed into open war. A coup d'état, whispered in the dark corners of the globe, had sparked with dangerous intensity. And just as Chrollo had considered making his move, seizing the opportunity to exploit the chaos, another, even greater power had shut it down before he could act. He would've lost a member or two that day, he knew it. A calculated risk he wasn't willing to take at the time. He had let it go.

 

If Pakunoda hadn’t mentioned that memory—

He might’ve been one step closer to forgetting her.

 

Not Raziel.

Her.

 

The girl with quiet eyes, a universe of secrets stitched into her very bones. The girl who had left a small, inexplicable crack in his carefully constructed resolve without ever having to lift a finger against him.

He had tried to forget her. He had genuinely, methodically, tried.

 

And failed.

 

"Who shut the conflict down again?" he asked, his voice soft, almost a dangerous murmur, a ripple disturbing the surface of a deep, still pond.

Shalnark's fingers, quick and precise, flew across his phone. A few quick taps, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression, and he confirmed what Chrollo already feared.

 

"...The Zodiacs."

Chapter 6: 5 | 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞

[Firstname] narrowed her eyes at the grand structure ahead. No matter how many times she saw it, the building still felt excessive. Its U-shaped design gleamed under the sunlight, attracting tourists like moths to flame. She quietly wondered just how many millions of jennies her family had sunk into its construction.

 

’They should’ve just made it a reverse-U… or shaped it like the first initial of our surname, she mused. Not that anyone could pull off engineering like that anyway.’

 

“Funny,” a voice teased behind her. “For someone who doesn’t want to be recognized, you sure dressed to captivate an entire street.”

 

She playfully rolled her eyes at him. She wore a gorgeous black asymmetric slip and sheath dress that hug her curves, making not only the men but also the ladies eyeing her either by admiration or jealousy.

 

She smirked over her shoulder. “Says the guy carrying half the street in shopping bags.”

 

Kurapika shot her a glare. “Eighty percent of these are yours, thank you very much.”

 

She laughed, and he sighed in mock defeat. They had spent most of the morning weaving through boutiques—her selling off lavish gifts from persistent admirers, and the two of them replenishing her wardrobe and picking up some necessities for the small home they now shared.

 

As they walked down the street, she barely flinched at the catcalls thrown her way. Kurapika noticed how easily she ignored them, how naturally she carried herself with confidence. But still…

 

“Aren’t you afraid someone might recognize you?” he asked, concern flickering beneath his calm tone.

 

“Nope.” She popped a piece of street food into her mouth, eyes darting to the nearby stalls. “My family kept me hidden from the world. No one knows my face except those who work directly under us.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because they think I’m an anomaly.”

 

He stopped walking.

 

Pity stirred inside him, but she caught it before he could say anything. Her lips curled—not bitter, not sad. Amused.

 

“It’s fine. Anomalies draw attention.”

 

And wasn’t that the truth?

 

They sat side by side at a small ramen stall tucked between buildings, steam rising gently from their bowls. It wasn’t extravagant—far from it—but Kurapika preferred it this way. Quiet. Unassuming.

 

She, on the other hand, looked completely out of place.

 

She crossed her legs beneath the counter, long lashes fluttering as she examined her bowl with regal distaste. Her expensive black dress clung to her curves, drawing stares from every direction. Even the steam seemed to coil around her differently—like it, too, was enchanted.

 

She stabbed at the noodles with her chopsticks, unimpressed. “Ramen. You really dragged me here to eat peasant food.”

 

Kurapika fought the smirk tugging at his lips. “You said you wanted to experience normal life.”

 

“I didn’t say I wanted to suffer,” she said with a sigh—but she slurped the noodles anyway.

 

He watched her, trying not to make it obvious. The way she pouted before taking a bite. The slight crinkle of her nose. The soft little satisfied hum she let out after the first taste.

 

He looked away quickly when she caught him staring.

 

But she caught the look. Of course she did.

 

“What?” she teased. “You falling for me or something?”

 

Kurapika nearly choked on his noodles. “No,” he answered a little too quickly.

 

She snickered, clearly enjoying his discomfort. He rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth from spreading across his cheeks. It was ridiculous. She was unpredictable, arrogant, and entirely too observant—but she was also magnetic in a way that made it hard to breathe sometimes.

 

“Remove that smirk of yours,” he muttered, composing himself. “I was only staring because you eat like a pig.”

 

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, shut up.”

 

He hid his smile behind his tea.

 

Still, he couldn’t help but glance at her again out of the corner of his eye. There was something about her—something wild beneath the surface. She acted like she didn’t care about the world, but he could see it in her eyes: the weight she carried, the things she didn’t say. And he wanted to know them. He wanted to know her.

 

Even if he knew he shouldn’t.

 

She leaned forward, propping her elbow on the counter. Her smile was wicked, feline. Effortless. Kurapika looked away, unsure whether he wanted to smile or escape. There was something about her—something dangerous and electric. She was wild and unpredictable, like a fire that licked close but never quite burned. He shouldn’t be drawn to her.

 

And yet.

 

They finished half their meal before she asked between bites, “I never had the chance to ask, Pika-chan—but what do you do for a living?”

 

“If I hadn’t met you?” he clarified. She nodded.

 

He hesitated. “I’m picking up jobs. Saving money.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Planning something?”

 

“Zaban City,” he said simply. “I’m going to take the Hunter Exam.”

 

She froze for half a second, the humor flickering in her expression replaced by something else—calculation, recognition. Kurapika saw the way her grip on the chopsticks shifted slightly, how her eyes narrowed in silent understanding. He knew that by this time she knew what he was planning, and somehow it was okay for him.

 

“I see,” she said. And then, with a teasing smirk, “I suppose that explains your boring personality.”

 

He chuckled despite himself. “And you? What would you be doing?”

 

“Honestly?” She shrugged, sipping her tea. “Getting by. Funding my lifestyle. I know I’m spoiled, but I’m not planning to change—or go back to that prison of a mansion.”

 

Her tone dropped so suddenly Kurapika almost didn’t catch the words.

 

The table trembled slightly as she stood up with sudden violence. Several nearby customers turned to look. Her eyes were distant, burning.

 

“I refuse to be anyone’s puppet,” she snapped.

 

“Hey—hey,” Kurapika reached up, gently grabbing her arm, lowering her back into her seat. “Calm down. People are staring—”

 

“That’s it, Pika-chan,” she declared dramatically. “I’ll be a Hunter too. I’ll come with you!”

 

“What?” He blinked. “Wait, are you—serious?”

 

He didn’t know what surprised him more: the statement or how fast her mood shifted. She was like weather in a storm—beautiful, thunderous, unpredictable. And yet… it fascinated him. Scared him. Drew him in like a moth to flame.

 

She burst out laughing, finally settling back into her seat. “Just kidding. As much as I’d love to, I can’t.”

 

Kurapika exhaled, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed.

 

“Why not?” he asked, averting his gaze. “Being a Hunter has… benefits. Financially and otherwise.”

 

“I know,” she said quietly. “But that path isn’t mine.”

 

The silence between them was comfortable, almost heavy. Then she broke it.

 

“I’ll see to it.”

 

He looked up. “Huh?”

 

“The Hunter Exam,” she clarified. Her voice was almost distant now. “I’ll check it out. Maybe. If I get bored.”

 

Kurapika raised an eyebrow. “You’ll take the most brutal exam in the world because you’re bored?”

 

She just laughed—and this time, it was different. Full. Honest.

 

He found himself staring again.

 

Her head tilted back as she laughed, a dry leaf drifting from the trees above, catching in her hair. Her eyes squinted just slightly, her lips parted in amusement. The sight of her like this—unarmored, real—made something in his chest stutter. Her laugh, light and musical, was a sound he wanted to trap in a bottle.

 

He blinked, once, and then—

 

Her smile vanished.

 

She froze mid-laugh, her expression flattening like a dropped mask. Kurapika watched in disbelief as her face turned to stone, eyes darkening, posture rigid. Her gaze locked on something behind him—cold, razor-sharp, inhuman.

 

Not a trace of warmth left.

 

It was like watching sunlight vanish under storm clouds. For a second, Kurapika saw the monster she’d been hiding behind all that charm. The kind of woman who could kill with the same ease she laughed.

 

“I remember,” she said, voice flat. “I have an errand to run.”

 

She stood and dropped a wad of cash on the counter—enough to pay for every customer there.

 

Kurapika stood quickly. “Wait—what? You expect me to let you go off alone? No.”

 

She turned to him, her tone playful—but laced with something darker this time. “It’s not a request, Kurapika.”

 

He recognized the threat buried in her smile. She wasn’t asking for permission. She never had.

 

“…Be careful out there,” he murmured, almost like a prayer.

 

She walked away. But just before she disappeared into the dark, she turned over her shoulder, voice soft and distant.

 

“Don’t wait for me.”

 

And just like that, she was gone.

Notes:

Hello!

Sorry for making you guys wait! I am having writers block for chapter 7 and I don’t want to publish the 6 if I don’t finish the chapter 7 yet. So here it is. Enjoy!

Chapter 7: 6 | 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭

The silence was a lie.

It was a vast, deceptive quiet, heavy with the promise of violence. The wind, a phantom breath, rustled through the tall, unkempt grass, a mournful whisper. Hidden somewhere within the high, gnarled branches, unseen birds chirped their hollow melodies. Beneath the tangled underbrush, unseen rodents skittered, a frantic dance of life that would soon be disrupted. And from the empty, shadowed streets near the abandoned warehouse, the distant, lonely bark of a stray dog echoed – a stark, jarring counterpoint to the false peace.

 

It almost felt tranquil.

Almost.

 

[Firstname] stood motionless, a statue carved from shadow, her senses stretched taut, absorbing the deceptive natural symphony of the city's forgotten outskirts—her temporary, fleeting sanctuary. She clung to the fragile hope that this sliver of calm might, just might, stretch a moment longer.

 

But peace was a luxury she’d never truly known.

Not for her.

 

They always found her. Always. No matter the distance she put between them, no matter how flawlessly she vanished from sight, they always dispatched someone. More than someone. An entire pack.

 

A quiet, mirthless sigh escaped her lips, and she pulled Kurapika’s black trench coat tighter around her. The fabric, worn and familiar, carried the faint, comforting scent of cedar and aged paper—his scent. He had draped it over her shoulders earlier, a gentle, almost prescient gesture, as if he’d known she’d need its cold comfort.

She hadn't needed to activate En. Her Nen, honed by months of relentless pursuit from professional hunters, had already whispered the truth. Instinct, sharp and unforgiving, had screamed their presence from across the street, from the unassuming ramen stall. The tangible bloodlust. The palpable wrongness that clung to them like a shroud. A metallic tang in the humid air, like iron and ozone. She knew instantly—these weren’t mere civilians.

They were like her.

Killers.

 

Five of them, now detaching themselves from the deeper shadows, each one radiating that same predatory confidence. Trained. Dangerous. But beneath the veneer of skill, there was a fatal flaw: arrogance. She saw it in the casual lean of their postures, the way they began to circle her, as if she were already ensnared.

Big mistake.

 

One, a silent sentinel, took position on the crumbling rooftop. Another woman, her features sharp and cruel, a grim reflection of [Firstname]'s own youth, stepped forward. A malicious grin stretched her lips.

“Let’s finish this quickly, yeah? Mommy and Daddy are waiting.” Her voice was a syrupy taunt.

[Firstname] scoffed, a brittle sound that grated against the oppressive silence. She brushed a strand of her [hair color] hair away from her face, her expression utterly devoid of warmth. “So they sent you.” Her voice was a low, chilling current—cold, unbothered. “How many more lives are they willing to throw away just to drag me back home in pieces?”

 

A flash of Kurapika—his bewildered expression as she’d abruptly risen from the ramen shop, her terse, urgent warning not to wait for her. She hadn't had a choice. If her family knew about him, truly knew, they would use him as the cruelest leverage. A blank card left behind might have offered a silent caution… but it was too late now. This was her fight. Only hers.

 

“Yes, sweetie.” The girl’s hand moved, fingers shifting with unnatural fluidity, contorting into an odd, precise gesture before snapping directly towards [Firstname]. [Firstname]’s eyes narrowed—Gyo. A sudden, blinding flash of raw aura. She twisted, a blur of motion, her body anticipating the attack. A shimmering blade of compressed Nen energy sliced through the air where she had just stood, whistling past her ear.

The girl sneered. “I’ve got a date later, so let’s wrap this up.”

“Sorry,” [Firstname] replied, her gaze sweeping the dilapidated alley. Cracked pavement. Shards of glinting glass. Skeletal streetlights, their bulbs long shattered. Plenty of tools, if one knew how to use them. A slow, sweet smile touched her lips—so disarmingly gentle that it made the approaching figures subtly tense.

“You’ll be late to your date.”

Her next word was a whisper, a promise that turned the smile into something utterly venomous: “Forever.”

“Ohoho, Richard-ykun, I like this one,” the woman cooed, her tongue darting out to lick her lips, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Too bad I might break her.”

“Easy, Rei,” a massive man, built like a brick wall, landed beside her, the ground trembling under the impact. “We need her alive.”

 

[Firstname] laughed.

It wasn’t a polite laugh. It wasn’t the kind of sound meant to defuse tension or project amusement. No, this was a cold, chaotic sound, a rasping, grating laugh that flayed nerves raw and made the hairs on their necks stand on end.

 

“Ever wonder why it takes more and more of you each time?” she asked, her voice laced with chilling amusement. She raised her hands—two obsidian tarot cards, sharp-edged and ancient, materialized between her fingers, glowing faintly with a malevolent aura. “Because the first ones died screaming.”

“Tch. You Barely dodged mine,” Rei muttered, disdain heavy in her tone. “People like you are all bark. I’ve survived worse.”

“Then count me among them,” [Firstname] purred, her voice dropping to a silken threat. She brought one card up, its dark surface obscuring her right eye, leaving only the other to bore into them. “Just don’t make me feel guilty about what happens next.”

 

They charged.

A blinding flash.

 

A concussive wave of smoke and raw force slammed into them, ripping them off their feet. The world shuddered as the two cards detonated in precise, tandem explosions, sending a violent geyser of dust and rubble into the air.

She reappeared in the blast’s roiling center, a spectral silhouette, calm and utterly untouched.

 

Four golden hairpins, razor-sharp and humming with her focused Nen, shot from her hand like a deadly volley. They flew with surgical precision, each finding its mark—not just a body, but a vital point.

Four bodies crumpled.

Hard.

 

The girl, Rei, gasped, a thin line of scarlet seeping from her temple.

[Firstname] knelt beside her, a predator assessing its prey. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Guess I’m the last person you’ll ever see then.”

She reached for the hairpin, still embedded in the girl’s skull—but a blur in her periphery, a flicker of movement too fast, made her instinctively leap back.

 

The fifth.

A man—cold, lean, and utterly unreadable—stepped into view, his foot nudging the corpse of his teammate aside like discarded trash. His movements were fluid, precise.

 

“You’ve got no loyalty, huh?” she said, her eyes narrowed.

“We were never friends. They let pride get in the way. That’s what got them killed.” His voice was a flat monotone.

“And you think you’re different?”

“I’m observant. Calculated.” He cracked his knuckles, the sound like dry bones. “And I love surprises.”

Then, he moved.

 

A gargantuan, knuckle-shaped construct of raw Nen materialized from thin air, a hammer of pure force that slammed into her midsection with brutal impact, launching her backward through the air. She careened into a crumbling brick wall, the impact sending fissures spiderwebbing across the weathered masonry.

Her breath was ripped from her lungs in a single, violent exhale, a painful, ragged gasp.

She hit the ground hard, vision spiraling, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of pain.

Before she could even begin to recover, the fists came again. Left, right, uppercut, hammer—blow after relentless blow, each one designed to break, to pulverize. There was no time to breathe, no time to think. Her body screamed in protest, every nerve alight with agony. Blood, coppery and warm, began to fill her mouth.

A faint, translucent shimmer spread across the immediate space—a boxing ring, outlined by shimmering aura lines. His ability. He had trapped her.

She coughed, a ragged, blood-flecked sound, shaking, bracing herself for the next inevitable strike.

 

Enough.

 

“Enough.” Her voice, though faint, cut through the haze of pain, firm and absolute.

Another knuckle construct formed above her, looming, ready to crush her outright.

But it never landed.

 

A sudden, explosive surge of Nen erupted from her, a raw burst of power. In the same instant, she vanished.

Then reappeared.

Right in front of him. Close enough to feel the stunned silence of his breath.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

Her fist—now coated in a terrifying, focused aura, dark and potent—smashed into his stomach, folding him in half. He flew backward, a broken puppet, bouncing off the cracked marble floor, coughing up a sickening spray of blood.

His ring vanished, its shimmering lines dissipating into nothingness.

“So,” she panted, blood trickling down her chin, a macabre smile twisting her lips. “Your ability fails when you lose composure. Impressive… but not good enough for me to copy.”

The man staggered to his feet, dazed, his eyes wide with a dawning horror. Her presence was different now. Her body, her aura—renewed, pulsating with a terrifying intensity.

“How… how did you—?”

 

Before he could finish, a violent, invisible tug of Nen dragged him forward, slamming him against a wall. Her hand slammed beside his head, the force cracking the plaster. Her eyes—those infamous eyes—burned a searing, impossible crimson.

 

Her Red Eyes—The Maloccio.

 

Her voice dropped to a quiet, lethal whisper, a threat laced with pure, unadulterated menace. “This is your last warning, Azazel. I’m not going back. And if you, or anyone else, keeps coming for me—”

She leaned in close, her breath a cold whisper against his ear.

“I will hunt every last one of you down. Even if I have to become the final [Lastname] standing.”

“W-what?” he stammered, fear blanching his face. “I’m… not Azazel…”

She stepped back, her crimson eyes fading back to their normal, piercing hue, a cold smile playing on her lips. “Of course not. But he’s watching, isn’t he?”

He looked down, his fingers trembling, a realization dawning in his eyes.

“You’re just his puppet.”

Before he could scream, before he could even register the movement, she hurled a golden hairpin. It embedded itself deep in his throat with a sickening thud.

 

Silence.

She walked among the corpses, her steps unnervingly calm, as if on a leisurely morning stroll. Her gaze lingered on each fallen figure, a cold assessment.

“Why me?” she muttered, her voice echoing in the sudden void. “Why go this far to drag me back, while my sister is free? Five wasted assassins, all for me…”

 

She stopped.

 

A prickle of ice crawled up her spine. A distinct, nauseating chill.

Earlier, there had been six distinct auras. Six.

She counted only five corpses.

 

Where—

 

Something cold, undeniably sharp, pressed against the small of her back. A knife. The voice that followed was low, impossibly smooth, and utterly familiar.

 

“Move… and I’ll kill him.”

Her heart plummeted, a lead weight in her chest.

She clenched her fists, fury rising, hot and suffocating.

 

She knew that voice. Knew the impossible power behind it.

Knew she couldn’t escape—not from him.

 

Arms snaked around her waist, pulling her back, pulling her close against a familiar, unwelcome presence.

His breath, warm and slow, tickled her ear, a deliberate invasion.

 

“Found you.”

 

She gritted her teeth, his name falling from her lips like venom, a curse she had harbored for too long.

“Chrollo.”

 

He chuckled darkly, a sound like silk drawn over razor wire.

 

“Missed me?”

Chapter 8: 7 | 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞

Men checked in at their favorite gyms. Girls giggled over cosmetics and trendy outfits. Elderly women clustered in circles, exchanging gossip like currency, while others queued up outside the local bakery for their usual sweet fix.

 

Or at least, that’s what Chrollo Lucilfer expected to see when he arrived.

 

Instead, the street was unnervingly empty. The city, usually so full of life, had fallen into a silence so thick it pressed against his eardrums. Only the distant yelping of stray dogs echoed in the stillness, accompanied by the flickering of a faulty streetlamp. The surrounding fog coiled through the alleyways like something alive.

 

It felt less like a city street and more like the eerie opening of a noir crime film.

 

Chrollo almost smiled at the thought, the corners of his lips twitching faintly as his sharp eyes scanned the area. His guard was up, aura calm but alert. The silence wasn’t natural. This street was holding its breath.

 

“I didn’t know the girl we’re hunting was this pretty,” came a voice from above.

 

Chrollo didn’t look up. The speaker had used Zetsu well—he hadn’t sensed a thing until the man opened his mouth. A capable Nen user. But Chrollo’s interest only sparked with what the voice said next.

 

“She seems weak. I don’t feel any aura at all. Is he seriously paying billions of jenny for someone like her?”

 

That piqued his curiosity. Money was always an effective lure—but for a target that apparently radiated no power? Either the informant was a fool… or the woman in question was something else entirely.

 

As if summoned by his thoughts, the thick fog began to recede. Slowly, almost theatrically, it peeled back—revealing five distinct figures positioned carefully on rooftops and alley corners, all focused on a single point of interest ahead.

 

And there she was.

 

Casually dressed, sipping soup at a ramen cart. Her back was straight, posture relaxed, her mouth curled into an easy smile as she talked to the blond man beside her. Her hair, though tied in a messy bun, framed her face in the most disarming way. Her lips, painted the color of fresh blood, parted with ease as she laughed softly at something he said.

 

But it was her eyes that drew him in the most.

 

Those [eye color] eyes.

 

Eyes that, for a brief second, locked onto his. Eyes that held a thousand unspoken truths. He’d seen those eyes before.

 

Of course…

 

She was the same girl.

 

The same girl who had once knelt between him and his enemy, begging for the bloodshed to stop.

The same girl who had chosen someone else over him without hesitation.

The same girl who had slipped through his fingers.

 

Back then, he had told himself it was pride. That it irritated him because women usually clung to him, fascinated by his calm charisma and dangerous allure. But the ache he’d felt when she disappeared hadn’t been mere bruised ego. It lingered too long. Festered too deeply.

 

And Chrollo didn’t like things he couldn’t understand.

 

He had let her go back then because trying to claim her would’ve cost him members he couldn’t afford to lose. She was too well-guarded, too watched. But now…

 

Now she was alone.

 

Or so she thought.

 

As the ambush played out, Chrollo remained in the shadows, watching in stillness. The moment she activated her ability, the moment her aura surged like a tidal wave breaking free—he felt his blood stir.

 

So she had been hiding it.

 

He watched her dance through the battlefield, her movements fluid, practiced, brutal. Each card she drew, each pin she threw, was a death sentence. She was an artist of murder.

 

She was terrifying.

 

She was… beautiful.

 

And when the opportunity presented itself—when her final opponent left her just winded enough for someone faster and more cunning to strike—Chrollo stepped in.

 

He captured her.

 

Not out of necessity, but out of intention.

 

She was no longer an anomaly to him. She was a puzzle. A weapon. And—perhaps—a story he wasn’t yet done reading.

 

---

 

Now, the three of them—Chrollo, the woman, and two members of the Troupe, Machi and Pakunoda—drove in silence through the city, using a stolen car they’d acquired just minutes ago.

 

The woman sat beside Chrollo in the back seat, her hands bound tightly by Machi’s Nen threads. Yet she looked anything but subdued.

 

“You really are a handsome man, aren’t you?” she said suddenly, voice laced with amusement.

 

Chrollo looked at her, mildly curious.

 

She gave him a small, crooked smile. “Too bad you’re not my type.”

 

He chuckled softly. “Oh? And why’s that?”

 

“You almost killed me the first time we met. And now, this?” she gestured lazily at her tied wrists. “Kidnapping doesn’t exactly scream good first—or second—impression.”

 

“Fortunately for you, this isn’t a kidnapping,” Chrollo said coolly. “It’s an invitation.”

 

From the passenger seat, Machi glanced back. “Danchou?”

 

But the girl beside him beat him to the answer.

 

She snorted—then laughed.

 

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t panicked. It was the kind of laugh that echoed and demanded attention. Even Pakunoda glanced at her through the rearview mirror.

 

“Oh my god,” she wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

 

“But I’m not joking,” Chrollo replied with the calmness of truth.

 

Her laughter faded slowly. She met his gaze with a sardonic smile.

 

“Whatever that is, it’s a no.” She leaned closer, the chains around her wrists clinking with the movement. “Just so we’re clear.”

 

Chrollo didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached out and gently cupped her chin between his fingers. She tried to jerk back, but the space in the backseat was too tight. And her bindings gave her little freedom.

 

His touch was deceptively gentle, his thumb grazing her cheekbone. Her skin was warmer than he expected.

 

“We’ll see,” he murmured. A faint smirk played on his lips. “We’re not done yet… are we?”

 

Her eyes narrowed.

 

And in that narrow space between challenge and promise, the game truly began.

Chapter 9: 8 | 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐖𝐞𝐛

“𝓐ren’t this place classy?” she muttered sarcastically, eyeing their so-called “base” with barely concealed distaste. As the tall blonde woman—Pakunoda, she recalled—had explained earlier, this dilapidated building used to be a grand hotel.

 

And it showed.

 

Even with cracked tiles and peeling wallpaper, the architectural bones were unmistakable: spiral staircases, arched windows, velvet drapes faded by time. It must have once been a five-star retreat, elegant in every sense. Now? It was just barely holding onto its old glory.

 

Still, she begrudgingly admitted—if only in her mind—that the Troupe had done a decent job maintaining it. Or rather, Chrollo had. He struck her as the kind of man who couldn’t stand disorder.

 

“My apologies,” Chrollo said, walking beside her. “We haven’t used this base in quite some time.”

 

She ignored him, instead sweeping her gaze over the room and the people inside.

 

Seven of them, including herself. The rest watched her closely, their presence as oppressive as the stale air. Wooden crates were stacked high against the walls—too many to be empty, too heavy to be nothing. Her mind cataloged potential escape routes, weaknesses, leverage. She doubted they’d leave any, but it never hurt to plan.

 

“Based on the way the pink-haired girl addressed you earlier,” she said coolly, “I assume you’re the leader of this little freak show?”

 

“I am,” Chrollo answered easily, watching her from the upper level of the lobby, leaning against a banister like a monarch. “Though we’re not all here yet. The rest are completing missions I assigned. Would you like to meet them when they return?”

 

“No. I’m not interested in you or your little collection of murderers,” she said flatly, trailing her fingers over an ornate but dust-covered table. The Nen threads binding her wrists didn’t stop her from touching things—and she made sure to touch everything. Annoying them was the least she could do.

 

“But you should be,” Chrollo said, voice laced with gentle warning. “Since you’ll be one of us soon.”

 

“Are we still pretending this is an ‘invitation’ and not a kidnapping?” she asked dryly, glancing up at him. He looked comfortable on his little balcony throne—too comfortable.

 

Some buried part of her whispered to entertain his offer. To consider it. But she crushed the thought instantly. Becoming one of them was suicide. Whatever he said, whatever he offered—it wouldn’t sway her. She had another plan. A safer one.

 

“I told you. This isn’t a kidnapping. You’re a guest,” Chrollo replied with his usual calm smile.

 

She rolled her eyes. “If I were stupid, I might actually believe you.”

 

“That’s a harsh accusation,” he replied lightly. “A prisoner sleeps in cages, is starved, mistreated. You’ll have a bed, food, warmth… All we ask is that you join us.”

 

“You really are insufferable,” she muttered.

 

“Really, [Firstname],” he echoed, his smile widening just slightly.

 

She exhaled sharply and forced herself to look away, trying to keep her rising frustration in check. Every time she looked at him, he chipped away at her resolve.

 

She scanned the rest of the group. They watched her like caged lions—careful, predatory. Her mind calculated again. If she activated her Nen, she’d have to undo the suppression caused by the threads, which forced her into a near-constant state of In. She could fight. She might even kill one or two. But escape? Unlikely. And if she failed, she’d just be another name on someone’s kill list. Another hunted animal.

 

Then something caught her eye.

 

A painting.

 

It was old and dramatic, hung at the end of a hallway in a cracked gold frame. It depicted a shadowy staircase, dimly lit, at the center of which stood a man and woman. The man wore a tailored suit and bore a distinctive cross on his forehead. The woman beside him was clad in a crimson gown, lips curled into a knowing smile. Around them loomed a gathering of others—loyal, deadly, cast in shadow.

 

She tilted her head. There, just behind the woman, a barely visible figure lurked in the background. A shadow. Not quite formed. Most would call it a painter’s mistake.

 

But [Firstname] knew better.

 

“To have an error on such a beautiful piece… unforgivable.” She loved art. Not in the decorative, casual sense, like a collector of pretty things—but in the way others loved religion. She didn’t paint, but she understood it. Felt it.

 

Then she noticed the signature beneath the canvas.

 

𝒜𝑔𝓃𝑒𝓈 1/5

 

She moved to the next painting. This one read 3/5—and it was clearly part of the same series.

 

The same woman appeared again, but this time she looked… broken. Her hair was tangled and loose around her shoulders. Rain fell gently from a painted sky. She stood in a park, surrounded by vivid flora, but her eyes were empty. A man with long hair clung to her tightly, possessively, his embrace suffocating.

 

She stared at it too long.

 

Anger crept up her spine.

 

Not just sympathy. Recognition.

 

She turned quickly to the next canvas.

 

The same woman again—but smiling. Radiant. Alive. Her arms were outstretched in a field of sunlight and laughter. Yet still… in the background… that same shadow lingered, barely visible. Watching.

 

Waiting.

 

“So, what do you think?” Chrollo asked behind her.

 

She blinked, torn abruptly from her daze.

 

“…It’s breathtaking,” she admitted quietly, eyes still glued to the canvas. “Surreal. Mysterious. It feels like… there’s something in them. Like a secret waiting to be uncovered.”

 

The others heard her, and she realized too late that she’d spoken aloud.

 

She straightened and added, louder, “Nice collection.”

 

“It is,” Chrollo said. But he was staring at her, not the art. Staring at those [eye color] eyes.

 

The longer he looked, the harder it became to think clearly. Her gaze was intoxicating. His hand drifted to his collar, loosening it slightly.

 

“I wonder where the other two are,” she asked suddenly. “The second and fifth paintings. It’d be remarkable to see the full set.”

 

Chrollo smiled at the obvious attempt to break the tension—and admired her for it.

 

“We’ve looked everywhere,” he said. “Only had the first and third for years. The fourth one appeared a few weeks ago. I have a theory—when you collect enough, the rest find you… or they respond to certain people.”

 

“Hm,” she said, glancing again between the canvases.

 

He took a breath to speak again, but she cut him off.

 

“But I’d still say no,” she said sweetly, tilting her head just enough to annoy him.

 

He nearly laughed.

 

“Are you… the third child of the [Lastname] family?” Shalnark asked suddenly, eyes gleaming.

 

She turned to him with a sneer. “Obviously.”

 

Chrollo noted the way Shalnark’s eyes lit up. He was already calculating.

 

“Why ask when you could’ve researched it? Those bastard reporters probably know more about me than I do,” she snapped.

 

Shalnark laughed, genuinely impressed. Her sarcasm in such a situation was… entertaining.

 

Chrollo, meanwhile, was still turning something over in his mind. The way she spoke, the fire in her spirit—it made it hard to forget her. Even from the first time they met, she’d been a flame no storm could extinguish.

 

Shalnark finally said, “Just wanted confirmation. Danchou… you were right.”

 

“Yes. That’s why she must join us,” Chrollo said without missing a beat.

 

Her smile fell flat. “No. Besides, I can’t heal for shit.”

 

Ah. There it was.

 

“You’re after the healer,” she continued, voice tight with frustration. “That’s what this whole charade is about. You want a [Lastname] on your team. The best healers in the world.”

 

She looked away, jaw clenched. “But I’m not like them. I’m the black sheep. The anomaly. That’s why they hide me away. No public events, no portrait in the family gallery. I’m not worth putting on display.”

 

Her eyes locked onto Chrollo’s, icy and furious.

 

“That’s why it’s imperative you. Let. Me. Go.”

 

Chrollo leaned back in his chair and smirked.

 

“…No.”

 

“You are so irritating. God, I hate you,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

 

Chrollo, unbothered, looked positively amused.

 

“If I escape,” she warned, “I will hunt you down.”

 

He leaned forward slightly, voice calm and playful.

 

“You could hunt me every day… by joining us.”

 

She glared at him.

 

“Shut up.”

Chapter 10: 9 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧

Notes:

Hello!

This chapter is where I explain MC’s a little about abilities. Her nen ability is inspired by 22 Major Arcana. Hence the title of this chapter.

The symbol of the card is based on roman numerals.
XXIV - 17
X - 10

Chrollo hadn’t anticipated her level of resistance.

 

She wasn’t just saying no—she was weaponizing it.

 

Meals untouched, gazes averted, the biting grip of the Nen threads endured without so much as a whisper of complaint. Her body, undeniably, was a canvas of growing weakness – the subtle tremble in her hands, the faint blue beneath her eyes, the way her frame seemed to shrink. But her will? That was a supernova, fiercely unyielding, radiating a heat that even Machi, the troupe’s unyielding cornerstone, had been forced to acknowledge. “That girl’s either stupid… or dangerous,” Machi had muttered, her voice a low growl, a rare admission of something akin to grudging respect.

 

Chrollo, a silent sentinel, occupied the worn velvet throne at the far end of the grand lobby. He was a study in detached observation, half-watching his members, a restless tide ebbing and flowing through the opulent decay of the old hotel. But the other half, the more significant half, was devoted solely to her. Always her.

 

She was a defiant sculpture curled on a faded chaise lounge, nestled beneath the gaze of one of the Agnès paintings. Though the exhaustion etched faint lines around her eyes and a pallor kissed her skin, her posture remained an unspoken challenge. Her chin was raised, a sharp, unyielding angle, and her eyes, though tired, held a quiet, simmering venom. They weren't just glancing; they were measuring. Measuring the distance to the nearest exit, her gaze a silent plea that lingered too long on the heavy, carved doors at the back of the room.

 

He noticed.

So did Machi.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Machi growled, rising from her seat like a panther stirring. Her eyes flared with challenge as they locked onto [Firstname]’s.

 

And yet, [Firstname] simply laughed. It was a sound that was light, mocking, and utterly devoid of fear – a sound that cut through the oppressive tension like a honed blade. “What are you so afraid of?” she asked, her voice a cool, dangerous dance between sarcasm and outright defiance. “You think I’m going to… what? Turn into my some beast, kill you all and fly away?”

“You keep saying you’re useless,” Chrollo interjected, his voice calm, yet resonating with an undeniable undercurrent of steel. “But we’re not blind, [Firstname]. You’re not here because we’re desperate. You’re here because you’re… complicated.”

She turned to him then, face hardening. “That’s one word for it.”

He tilted his head. “You interest me. From the moment we met.”

“And you don’t,” she snapped back instantly. “Let’s not pretend this is some tragic star-crossed fascination. You’re just a collector, Lucilfer. And I don’t do cages.”

The words were meant to sting – and they did, precisely as intended – yet Chrollo’s face remained a perfect, unreadable mask. Not a muscle twitched. Still, his fingers, ever so subtly, curled tighter around the worn pages of his open book, the leather creaking under the barely contained pressure. Around them, the Troupe stirred, a collective ripple of unease and simmering aggression. Bloodlust, thick and palpable, began to bubble beneath the surface like a kettle brought to a furious boil. The Nen thread, previously a mere bind, now tightened around her wrists, biting into skin, leaving angry red welts.

 

But she didn’t flinch.

 

“You really should consider your tone,” Shalnark muttered from the side, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by a cool warning.

“She should consider her options,” Phinks added, cracking his knuckles.

“Enough,” Chrollo said softly, the single word a quiet command that nevertheless resonated with absolute authority. And like loyal dogs, their hackles lowering, they sat back down, the tension coiling, but contained.

 

But [Firstname] had reached her breaking point.

 

The quiet defiance had shattered, replaced by a desperate, burning need for escape. She wasn't going to wait another day. Not while her body weakened, her spirit frayed. Not while Kurapika, her last hope, her reason for enduring, could be lying in a pool of his own blood, or worse, succumbing to the darkness that consumed this world because her family tracked him. And certainly not while these criminals played their twisted mind games with her freedom, with her very soul.

 

[Firstname] clenched her jaw, her teeth grinding together, a silent declaration of war.

 

And then—

 

She slipped the threads. The malocchiodormant for so long, opened behind her pupils, a blazing inferno of resolve. Her Nen, long suppressed, roared to life in her veins, a torrent of raw, untamed energy.

 

Three cards materialized.

 

• The Wheel of Fortune (X) – for a weapon. A means to fight, to tear through her captors.
• Star (XVII) – for the ice storm to trap them. A chilling barrier, a desperate measure to buy time.
• Chariot (VII) – for the escape. The final push, the promise of freedom, a teleportation that would whisk her away.

 

She threw the Star. Shards of freezing rain, sharp as razors, erupted midair, a dazzling, paralyzing the Troupe, to buy her precious seconds.

The Wheel spun—she chose a katana with the mind of a seasoned killer.

The Chariot glowed, pulsating with a vibrant, desperate light, pulling her aura toward a teleportation mark deep in the labyrinthine alleys of Yorknew, a hidden sanctuary, a beacon of hope.

 

Freedom. Finally.

 

Except—

 

Nothing happened.

 

She blinked. Once. Twice. A cold, creeping dread began to curl in her stomach.

 

No rain.

No sword.

No glow.

 

She was still kneeling on the cold tiles. Still shackled by Machi’s thread. Still trapped. A breath hitched in her throat. It’s just an illusion Reality returned with a sickening thud.

 

And that was when a hand, not rough, but undeniably strong, coiled around her waist.

 

Restrictive.

Intimate.

 

“What—” she gasped, her voice raw with a mixture of terror and disbelief. A familiar chuckle, low and dangerously seductive, tickled her ear, sending shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with revulsion.

“My, my. You’re so impatient, little bunny.” Hisoka’s breath was warm against her neck. “It’s almost romantic, the way you struggle.”

“Hisoka—” she hissed just enough for him to hear, her eyes wide with a potent cocktail of disbelief and unadulterated rage. The sheer audacity, the timing, the infuriating nonchalance of his presence.

“I see you’ve come early,” Kortopi muttered, stepping forward, his eyes wary, his gaze flickering between Hisoka and the still-shackled [Firstname].

“Of course,” Hisoka purred, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, as if his arrival were a preordained cosmic event. “Word is, we had a beautiful guest. I couldn’t resist the invitation.”

He pulled her hair gently, a calculated, almost tender tug, just enough to force her head back slightly. Her eyes, blazing with fury, met his – and he smirked, that infuriating, knowing curve of his lips that always seemed to mock the world.

“They really don’t make them like you anymore,” he purred, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver of pure disgust down her spine.

“Hisoka,” Machi snapped, her voice sharp as a needle. “You’re overstepping.” A clear warning, a demarcation of territory.

 

And then Chrollo stood.

 

The snap of his book closing echoed across the grand lobby like a clap of thunder, reverberating through the heavy silence that had fallen. Hisoka’s eyes, suddenly devoid of their usual amusement, flicked toward him, and something ancient and volatile, something predatory and lethal, shifted in the air between the two men.

 

The look Chrollo gave him wasn’t anger, not in the traditional sense. 

 

It was possession.

 

It was the look of a collector whose prize was being toyed with, a king whose territory was being encroached upon.

 

“She’s a guest,” Chrollo said, his voice soft, almost silken, yet it carried the weight of unyielding steel, a definitive statement that brooked no argument.

Hisoka grinned, that infuriating grin that begged to be punched. “Oh, I’m just making her feel welcome.”

 

The moment stretched – longer than it should have, impossibly long, taut with unspoken threats and simmering rivalry. [Firstname] felt the pressure in the room rise, suffocating and heavy, like a storm front building. Everyone sensed it. A flicker of murderous intent, raw and untamed, passed between the two men, a silent, deadly conversation.

 

'This isn’t just about me', she realized. This is about control. Territory.

 

Hisoka, with a flourish that was pure theatricality, ran a card through the air, the edge impossibly sharp, slicing through her Nen thread bindings as if they were made of fragile silk. The threads, suddenly severed, fell to the ground like dead snakes, coiling at her feet.

“What the hell are you doing?” Machi demanded, her voice laced with incredulous fury.

“Just making sure she’s comfortable, Machi~ ❤️,” Hisoka drawled, not even sparing her a glance, his attention still solely on Chrollo. “Isn’t that what you said, Danchou?”

 

Chrollo said nothing.

 

But his silence was louder than anything he could have spoken, a heavy, unspoken threat that hung in the air.

[Firstname], seizing the unexpected opportunity, yanked herself free from Hisoka’s grip and took several rapid steps back, putting a safe distance between them. Her aura flared – dark, sharp, coiling like a territorial beast behind her, a tangible manifestation of her fury. The Troupe tensed, a collective movement, ready to strike, ready to subdue.

 

But she didn’t strike.

Not yet.

 

“I’m leaving,” [Firstname] announced, her voice trembling slightly, but firm, as she brushed off invisible dust from her clothes, a gesture of dismissal and defiance. “And if you think I’ll change my mind just because of some games or threats, you’re all out of your damn minds.”

Chrollo looked down at her from the staircase, his gaze unwavering, analytical. “Then let’s compromise.”

She raised an eyebrow, a flicker of guarded interest.

“You participate in missions with us, and—”

“Deal!” she said, far too quickly, the single word cutting him off mid-sentence. She didn’t care about the rest, the unspoken conditions, the inevitable fine print. All she needed was out. Now.

 

She spun toward the exit—

 

Heart hammering, lungs ready to gulp the first breath of freedom—

 

Only for Hisoka to step in front of her, again.

 

Blocking her path like a curtain of silk laced with blades.

“What now?” she snapped, her voice strained, tired, coiled, her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached.

Hisoka tilted his head with exaggerated sorrow, his lips pulling into a cartoonish frown, a parody of regret. “It wounds me to part ways without a proper farewell, dove.”

He stepped forward. One deliberate, slow step.

She braced – ready to strike, to rip into him if he so much as touched her again. Her aura surged like a shadow catching fire, swallowing the air in violent, suffocating heat, a clear and unambiguous warning.

 

But then—

She saw it.

His fingers.

Moving.

 

Not randomly, not aimlessly. They danced in the air with a conductor’s precision, drawing invisible shapes, swirling loops that meant something. They danced in the air with a conductor’s precision, drawing invisible shapes, swirling loops that meant something.

 

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a message.

Her instincts screamed, a primal recognition of something vital.

She narrowed her eyes, and without hesitation, activated Gyo, focusing her Nen, pushing it into her vision, sharpening her perception.There – drifting just inches above his twitching fingers –

 

A whisper written in aura, barely visible even to the trained eye, shimmering like heat haze.

A single line, scrawled in invisible ink.

 

A secret only for her.

 

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

 

Her aura, once wild and ready to kill, flickered—

 

Then dissolved.

Quietly. Calmly.

As if it had never been there.

 

Her aura, once wild and ready to kill, flickered –

Then dissolved. Quietly. Calmly. As if it had never been there. The ferocious beast within her receded, replaced by a chilling composure. Hisoka chuckled, a low, guttural sound, dropping his hands to his sides. The false sorrow vanished from his face, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated amusement, a glint of predatory satisfaction in his eyes.

 

“See you soon, then~ 🩷.”

 

She met his gaze, not as prey, not as a victim, not as a desperate captive –
But as something far more dangerous: an equal with unfinished business. Her lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk, a private understanding passing between them. “See you, Hisoka.”

 

And this time, without another word, he let her pass.

Chapter 11: [Author's Note]: Explanation of your Nen Abilities

Your ability is based on a deck of 22 tarot-like Nen cards, each representing a Major Arcana. These cards grant a wide range of powers, from conjuration to manipulation, enhancement, and more.

Just like a real tarot reading, you do not choose the cards freely. Instead, two cards are conjured randomly in your hands each time you activate the deck. However, in special cases, you may draw specific cards of your choosing—all upright, and max of 3 cards—when your Malocchio (Evil Eye) is activated, a unique ability tied to your Nen eyes. This is comparable to Kurapika’s Scarlet Eyes, which enhances all Nen categories.

 

Special Cards

These cards are beyond your control and cannot be conjured. They only activate when specific, unrevealed conditions are met. You also don't know they exist.

• 0 - THE FOOL

• 13 - DEATH

• 15 - THE DEVIL

• 21 - THE WORLD

 

---

 

Passive Cards

These cards are not part of the main deck and cannot be conjured. Their effects are always known to you, and they activate automatically under specific circumstances outlined in their descriptions.

• 6 - THE LOVERS: EMISSION

  • Condition: Give the target a blank card they wholeheartedly accept and keep at all times. The receiver's name will appear on the card.

  • Upright: They can teleport to you. If your location is dangerous, they'll teleport to a nearby safe spot. They have 30 seconds to decide.

  • Downright: They'll be shown what's happening to you for 3 minutes.

  • Restriction: Maximum 5 blank cards. Only the receiver can be teleported unless a third party is holding onto them. Activates only if you are in grave danger. Only the receiver can use the blank cards.

• 11 - STRENGTH: ENHANCEMENT

  • Condition: Activates only during an ambush or unplanned battle.

  • Upright: Enhances all five senses by 200% for everyone within a 5-meter radius.

  • Downright: Enhances only your five senses by 200%.

  • Restriction: Effect lasts for 30 minutes.

• xx 20 - THE JUDGEMENT: SPECIALIZATION xx

  • Condition: Only summons if the 'Justice' card has been picked, or vice versa. This card will deliver appropriate punishment or reward based on the 'Justice' card's outcome.

  • Restriction: Cannot kill the target. Gives only one punishment/reward at a time.

 

---

 

Support Cards

This deck can be used at any time, including during battle. Card selection is randomized unless you are using "The Malocchio."

• xx 1 - THE MAGICIAN: CONJURER xx

  • Condition: You must touch, hold, and see the original item during the copying process.

  • Upright: Can copy up to 10 different items, lasting one hour. Each summoned item decreases the original item's existence by about 6 minutes (10 copies = 60 minutes).

  • Downright: Can copy only one item, lasting as long as you are conscious and within a 20-meter range.

  • Restriction: Cannot conjure anything from your imagination.

• 2 - THE HIGH PRIESTESS: SPECIALIZATION

  • Condition: You can transform into an exact copy of the target, including their characteristic aura, voice, etc.

  • Upright: The effect lasts until you decide to wear it off.

  • Downright: The effect lasts only one hour.

  • Restriction: You must know the true full name, voice, and the condition/restriction of the target's aura (if any). The target must not be in the same room or within a 10-meter radius.

• xx 3 - THE EMPRESS: MANIPULATION xx

  • Condition: You must kiss the target.

  • Upright: The target will follow your commands.

  • Downright: The target will do the opposite of your commands.

  • Restriction: The effect wears off after 30 minutes.

• xx 4 - THE EMPEROR: MANIPULATION xx

  • Condition: Summons a human-like emperor figure. Whoever looks into the emperor's eyes will be under his command and will not stop until the task is done.

  • Upright: All targets can go outside the zone.

  • Downright: All targets must be within a 1km radius from the emperor.

  • Restriction: One command/task at a time per person.

• xx 5 - THE HIEROPHANT: CONJURATION xx

  • Condition: Summons a small wolf-like Nen beast that acts as your spy and decoy. It copies the Nen of a Nen user who picks it up. If the person is not a Nen user, it acts as a spy. Everything it hears and sees is shown/heard through the card.

  • Upright: You can control the beast.

  • Downright: You cannot control the beast, but you can give it what it wants for it to follow your order.

  • Restriction: The beast cannot attack anyone but will protect you. It disappears if you become unconscious or dissolve the card.

• 7 - THE CHARIOT: EMISSION

  • Condition: You must place a marking—your hairpin with your blood on it—where you want to teleport.

  • Upright: Able to teleport within 7km.

  • Downright: Able to teleport within a 45m radius.

  • Restriction: You can't teleport to the mark if it's dangerous. You can't teleport if the hairpin is destroyed.

• xx 8 - THE JUSTICE: SPECIALIZATION xx

  • Condition: Summons the Lady of Justice. You must ask a series of questions to determine if the target is lying. If all target's answers are false, they receive judgment, or vice versa. This card then turns into the 'Judgement' card for retribution.

  • Restriction: You must be in front and face-to-face with the target.

• xx 9 - THE HERMIT: EMISSION xx

  • Condition: You must have previously touched the target and say their complete true name.

  • Upright: Reveals everything about the target, their whereabouts, etc.

  • Downright: Only the target's location will be revealed.

  • Restriction: Will not activate if the name is wrong. The Hermit disappears after 30 minutes or if you decide to dissolve it.

• xx 14 - TEMPERANCE: ENHANCEMENT xx

  • Condition:

    • Upright: Able to heal others within a 10-meter range.

    • Downright: Able to heal one person.

  • Restriction: Cannot heal yourself. Cannot heal severe wounds or revive someone.

• 18 - THE MOON: MANIPULATION

  • Condition: Target/s must be within a 10-meter radius illusion.

  • Upright: You can put anyone under the illusion.

  • Downright: Only one target.

  • Restriction: The illusion disappears if you fall unconscious or if the target figures out it's a Nen ability.

 

---

 

Attack Cards

This deck is used exclusively during combat. Card selection is randomized unless you are in "The Malocchio" mode.

• 10 - WHEEL OF FORTUNE: CONJURATION

  • Effect: Summons a wheel storing 5 different weapons: A katana, a sniper, a big hammer, a shield, and a three-sectioned staff.

  • Condition:

    • Upright: The wheel chooses a weapon suited to your current situation.

    • Downright: Randomly selects a weapon.

  • Restriction: You cannot choose the weapon yourself. The drawn weapon will not disappear until used. You can only store these 5 specific weapons, and they cannot be changed.

• xx 12 - THE HANGED MAN: CONJURATION xx

  • Condition: Summons a gigantic 'Hanged Man' figure whose primary weapon is an inseparable rope.

  • Upright: The Hanged Man has its own will and assists you in the best way possible.

  • Downright: The Hanged Man mirrors your movements.

  • Restriction: This card must be picked alone; no second card. If "The Eye" is activated, you can only get the Strength card, and both cards will be automatically in the upright position.

• xx 16 - THE TOWER: TRANSMUTATION xx

  • Condition:

    • Upright: You can manipulate land or nature within a 45-meter radius.

    • Downright: You must be surrounded by or have land/nature nearby to use this ability.

  • Restriction: You can only manipulate land, nature, etc., not gravity or anything that affects a wide-scale area. Must be in an open area.

• 17 - THE STAR: EMISSION

  • Condition: Summons a bright magic circle in the sky within a 20-meter radius, raining icy-like rain.

  • Upright: Kills all those you consider enemies (excluding yourself) before it disappears.

  • Downright: Kills everyone on sight except you.

  • Restriction: Must be in open space.

• 19 - THE SUN: EMISSION

  • Condition: Creates a magic circle around the card that explodes in a 15-meter radius after a specific time.

  • Upright: Explodes at your will.

  • Downright: Explodes in 10 seconds.

  • Restriction: Although this card has no specific restriction, you can also be harmed if you are within its radius.

 

 

Imporant Notes:

- Those with xx meaning they will be acquired or unlocked as we proceed to the main story, except the special cards.

- Yes, you may use both Support and Attack cards in the same battle.

- Once you summon cards in the battle you cannot summon again unless you use it. Max 2 per draw (3 if using Malocchio).

 

 

Notes:

If you have any questions, regarding your nen abilities. Feel free to comment below.

Chapter 12: 10 | 𝐋𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Notes:

Hi,

I missed writing and here I am! Also, I recommend you guys to reread the ENTIRE STORY again because I proofreading everything and reword the entire story. Thank you!

The showerhead above her hissed, a whisper of steam unfurling through the small, slick bathroom. Her palms clung to the porcelain sink, damp and cold. Her breath, a shaky ghost, misted the mirror, blurring the enraged reflection staring back. The towel, a forgotten burden, sagged from one shoulder, but she felt nothing but the seismic shock of two words.

"He knows him. Hunter Exam."

The message. Simple. Silent. Yet it had detonated inside her mind, shattering the fragile peace she'd clung to. She hadn’t imagined it. She’d seen it—a phantom scrawl in the air, a whisper carved into smoke, almost imperceptible to an untrained eye. But she was trained. Brutally. She had recognized the almost imperceptible twitch in Hisoka’s fingers, not as fidgeting, but as a deliberate choreography, a conductor guiding invisible instruments. Instinct, honed by years of survival, had screamed for Gyo. And there it was.

He knows him.
Hunter Exam.

She hadn't reacted then. Not visibly. Not a flinch, not a gasp. But now, alone with the echoing silence of her thoughts, the words hammered against her skull like a war drum.

Her aura had flared that day, a wild, explosive burst, without hesitation. Every Spider had tensed, hands reaching for weapons. Chrollo’s eyes had narrowed to predatory slits. Pakunoda had stiffened. Machi’s threads had nearly flexed, hungry for blood. It wasn't just a threat—it was raw, feral survival instinct, crackling to life within her. But Hisoka's subtle gesture, that secret message, had stopped her. Not out of fear, but because it had been a key. A clue.

Her reflection—[eye color] eyes, dulled by exhaustion yet burning with a furious, disoriented curiosity—stared back. "He knows him…"

"He" was unequivocally Illumi. There was no doubt.
"Him"—Kurapika.

The ice of certainty spread through her veins, chilling her to the bone. Illumi. Illumi, who had never once mentioned the blond boy. Not in all the torturous months they’d trained together. Not when she’d lived, a prisoner, beside him in the Zoldyck estate. Never, not even in passing, had Kurapika’s name crossed his lips.

So how?

The question burrowed deep, a poisoned barb lodged in her heart. She hadn’t dared voice it then, but now, the terrifying implications began to spiral.

Maybe… Azazel?

The thought slithered, cold and undeniable. Azazel, with his terrifying power to manipulate and witness through his victims’ eyes. If he had uncovered Kurapika’s identity… if he had fed that information, piece by agonizing piece, to Illumi… that would explain it. That would explain the sudden, chilling connection.

But then, a darker, more insidious truth emerged.

Why would Illumi care?
Why now?

The Zoldycks were ruthless. Once a contract was severed, it was severed clean. No second chances. No second hires. She had broken their terms. So why was Illumi, the family's most efficient and terrifying weapon, circling like a shark, not for her, but for someone completely outside their morbid history?

Her gut twisted with a visceral, sickening dread.

This wasn’t about her.
This was about Kurapika.

A frantic, primal need to protect him surged, drowning out everything else. And that meant she had to act. Now. Before the shadows tightened around him.

Her eyes drifted from the mirror to the satchel on the counter. Buried beneath crumpled, travel-worn clothes, wrapped in the delicate hem of a silk blouse, lay a small, unassuming glass vial.

Lilith’s Love Potion.

She lifted it to the light. The liquid inside shimmered, a captivating, dangerous violet, almost metallic in its deceptive beauty. A priceless artifact she had stolen from Gabriel’s mansion on a whim, leaving nothing but a mocking smiley face drawn beside the empty display case.

:)

The memory, stark against the burgeoning fear, almost made her grin.

The potion. A rare, ancient relic said to transform the drinker utterly—appearance, voice, even scent. A perfect disguise. But the price was steep, brutally so: her Nen, locked. Sealed under invisible chains, inert and useless, until she consciously reactivated it, shattering the illusion.

She twirled the vial between her fingers, the glass cool against her skin, a fragile promise of powerlessness.

So this was Hisoka’s game. He hadn't wanted her help. He hadn’t sought allegiance or cooperation. He wanted something far more cruel.

He wanted entertainment.

To watch her struggle, stripped bare of her power. To see who she became when everything she relied on—her cards, her aura, her very name—was ripped away. A stranger in a stranger's body, navigating a world suddenly far more dangerous.

She didn’t mind.

Let him watch.

It wasn’t the first time he’d loomed over her like a phantom, a grinning harbinger of chaos. She exhaled slowly, the steam-filled air suddenly heavy, and remembered.

 

---

 

It had been raining. A relentless, cold curtain of water.

She was seventeen. Still wet behind the ears, a fresh wound in the world, training under Illumi’s cold, watchful gaze. Not close. Not trusted. Just another [Lastname] child, passed into the assassin’s hands like a piece of currency.

That day, Illumi had brought her along on a mission to a forgotten, rundown district outside the city. He’d told her to stay in the alley. Wait for his signal. She had obeyed, a docile, obedient ghost.

Until someone came.

A man. More a shadow, really, but one that radiated a vibrant, unsettling energy. He sauntered into the alley as if he owned the very rain-slicked concrete—dripping wet, humming a light, unsettling tune to himself, arms folded casually behind his back. He was impossibly tall, too graceful for such a grim place, too pleased with the world.

His hair clung to his cheeks like bloodied ribbons. His eyes, predatory and sparkling, swept over the desolate alley.

And then they found her.

“Oh?” he purred, his voice curling like smoke around her, sweet and dangerous. “What a surprise. Did someone leave you here for me?”

She didn’t answer. Her hand slid toward her side, fingers instinctively reaching, preparing to conjure a defense. But his eyes, sharp and amused, caught the barest hint of movement, and they glimmered with keen interest.

“Easy,” he said, a silken warning. “I’m just curious. You’re a rare one. Pretty, sharp. Dangerous.”

“I said, walk away,” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper against the drumming rain, yet laced with nascent venom.

“Mm. But you didn’t say please.”

Hisoka.

She didn't know his name then, not officially, but she knew what he was. Every instinct screamed it.

Predator.

He took a slow, deliberate step closer, eyes dancing with anticipation, his aura held low, a potent, barely restrained force. Her own aura spiked, a protective reflex. Just as she prepared to strike, to unleash whatever nascent power she could muster—

“He’s with me.”

Illumi’s voice, flat and devoid of emotion, cut through the relentless rain.

Hisoka paused, his smile stretching, wider now, predatory. “Ah, Illumi~ Always a pleasure.”

Illumi’s gaze, as sharp and indifferent as ever, flicked between them. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Hisoka replied, never taking his eyes off her, his focus absolute. “Is this yours?”

“She’s not mine,” Illumi said. The words, devoid of warmth or ownership, were a blunt statement of fact.

“Shame,” Hisoka whispered, his gaze lingering on her, a chilling possessiveness in his tone. “She could be.”

The words had stung then. Not because they were flirtatious—she knew better than to misinterpret Hisoka’s twisted brand of interest—but because they were true. Back then, she had no place. Not truly in Illumi’s world, not yet. Just an unnamed girl, a disposable asset with a talent for blood and a growing affinity for tarot. But Hisoka, in his own disturbing way, had seen her.

Like prey.
Like a puzzle.
Like a promise.

She never forgot that grin.

 

---

 

Now, back in the small, steaming bathroom, she ran a hand through her damp hair, water beading on her skin. Her body still ached, a dull, lingering protest from the night before. Her Nen was temporarily sealed, a consequence of using malocchio in Chrollo’s hideout—she’d had no other choice, surrounded by professional killers, utterly defenseless. For now.

But she had something else.

She had the potion.

And she had a reason. A desperate, burning, undeniable reason.

If Illumi truly knew Kurapika—not just from some general association, but as a specific target, through Azazel’s twisted gaze—she had to find out why. And if Hisoka wanted to sit back and laugh while her world caught fire, fine.

Let him.

But this time, she would be the one setting the match. The one controlling the blaze.

She looked down at the potion again, the violet liquid swirling, beckoning.

Just one sip.
One transformation.
One infiltration.

She could slip into the Hunter Exam. Unseen. Unknown. A ghost among the hopefuls. Watch. Learn. Wait.

Her hand tightened around the vial, her knuckles white.

Kurapika was in danger.
And she was going to protect him.

No matter what name she wore.

No matter what body she inhabited.

No matter who she had to become.

She raised her head, meeting the gaze of the girl in the mirror. The girl staring back was no longer just her. She was a shadow. A spy. A stranger waiting to wake.

A smirk, sharp and dangerous, curved her lips.

"Just this once," she whispered, her voice a promise to herself, "I’ll play your game."

Chapter 13: 11 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐬

The brine of Dolle Harbor clung to the wind like a ghost’s sigh—sharp, pungent, alive. It sliced through the heavy air, a welcome reprieve from the ship’s stagnant humidity. As her boots touched the timeworn wood of the dock, she inhaled deeply, letting the sea's salt cut through the remnants of confinement.

A new skin cloaked her—woven not of cloth, but of potion and deception. Lilith’s Love Potion coursed through her veins in a slow, persistent thrum, its effect a silken distortion of who she truly was. Her once [original hair color] hair now fell in a black veil over her shoulders, unnaturally soft, touched by an illusion that masked more than just pigment. Her face, once sharp and unmistakable, was now softened at the edges—prettier, perhaps, but forgettable. The potion blurred detail, numbed familiarity.

And her eyes—those bright [original eye color] eyes that had once pierced through illusions—were now a deep, velvety red. A shade that drew attention, yes, but no recognition.

She had taken Kurapika’s height. His proportions. Enough to blend among the countless aspirants disembarking, all hearts pounding with silent ambition. Her gait was lighter, measured; the subtle grace of power dulled just enough to pass as average. The potion worked, but it came with rules.

Do not use Nen. The warning pulsed like a tattoo burned into her bones. One flare of aura—one moment of thoughtlessness—and the illusion would crack like glass. Her shield would fail. And she would be seen.

She’d made her choice. Her pride could burn. Kurapika’s safety would not.

Around her, the dock thrummed with the sound of feet and chatter. Dozens—no, hundreds—of would-be Hunters swarmed the harbor like ants discovering a feast. Laughter, boasts, nerves thinly veiled beneath false bravado. She scanned the crowd, her gaze sharp beneath the potion’s muting effect.

No familiar faces. Not yet.

Hisoka might have passed already. She doubted he’d waste time on conventional tests. If a proctor stood between him and the license, he’d simply kill them. Efficiency cloaked in madness. Typical.

Kurapika... she hoped he hadn’t arrived yet. Or if he had, that he passed unnoticed.

“Alright, all you little grubs!”

A thunderous voice cleaved through the murmur. A stout man—round as a boulder, laughter booming like cannonfire—stood atop a crate, arms raised with theatrical flair.

“The first test ain’t about muscles or murder! It’s about your mind. About whether that head of yours is anything more than a hat rack!”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, uneasy and confused.

He pointed toward a winding path veiled in a curtain of fog. The trees at its mouth looked skeletal, reaching upward like fingers grasping for the sun.

“Only one way to that cedar tree. But first—you gotta pass the Weaver’s riddle. Fail, and you’re done. Simple.”

The noise died instantly.

 

---

 

From the mist emerged a woman who looked as if she’d been carved from bone and shadow. Her spine bowed like old wood. Wrinkles carved her face into a thousand tiny stories. The staff in her hand pulsed faintly with something not quite Nen—something older.

The first examinee, a muscular man with a buzzcut and confidence to spare, stepped forward.

“A fire consumes your childhood home,” the Weaver croaked. “Inside, your mother screams from one room. Your father from the other. You may save only one. Who do you choose?”

The man hesitated, muscles twitching.

“My father,” he said quickly. “He’s strong. He can help me survive.”

A smile cracked the old woman’s face—dry, thin, humorless.

“You may pass.”

The mist parted like a curtain, revealing a wide path, clear and inviting. Without hesitation, the man strode into it and vanished into the woods.

Murmurs stirred. Confusion flickered.

[Firstname]’s eyes narrowed. That was too easy.

Another examinee—a nervous woman clutching a battered satchel—stepped forward.

“Your closest friend and sworn enemy both fall into a chasm. You have one rope. Who do you save?”

“My friend! Of course—my friend.”

“You may pass.”

Again, the path opened. Again, someone vanished.

The crowd was beginning to understand: they weren’t answers. They were judgments.

The third examinee, a lean youth with sharp eyes, offered a smug grin.

“Betray your mentor to save your village, or sacrifice the village for your mentor. Choose.”

“I’ll save the village. The greater good.”

“You may pass.”

And the path opened once more.

It was too clean. Too obvious. Every answer led to the same place.

[Firstname] stepped forward, her cloak brushing the weathered dock with a whisper, the fabric catching on the wind like a shadow resisting form. The Weaver’s eyes locked onto hers—pale, clouded things that held no mercy, only expectation.

“Your sibling dangles from one cliff,” the old woman rasped, voice like brittle parchment. “A stranger’s child from another. Both will fall if you hesitate. You have the strength to save only one. Who survives?”

The question cut deeper than the others.

[Firstname] felt the answer rise like bile. The child. Of course it was the child. She owed nothing to blood. Her siblings were dead to her—had been for years. A part of her even savored the thought of their fingers slipping, of their screams swallowed by the void.

But she said nothing.

Seconds ticked past, heavy as lead. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Around them, the air thickened. The hush deepened until even the harbor’s waves sounded distant, dulled—like the heartbeat of a dying world.The Weaver stared, searching for tremor, for hesitation, for anything.

[Firstname] remained silent.

Defiance? Perhaps. But not out of rebellion.

It was understanding. A refusal to validate the illusion of choice.

The old woman’s staff struck the dock with a sharp crack, and the mist shifted like breath around them.

To the left, almost hidden beneath rock and gnarled root, a slender trail revealed itself—narrow, obscured, but real.

The Weaver’s face softened, just enough to show something ancient and human in its bones.

“Ah… silence,” she murmured. “The most sacred answer of all.”

She leaned on her staff, gaze no longer piercing but… almost reverent.

“There are questions, child, that cannot be met with reason. And choices that carve so deep, they split even the soul that answers. You saw through the cruelty. You chose the wound.”

She nodded. “Go.”

[Firstname] bowed slightly and turned toward the hidden path.

 

---

 

The trail curved through a dense wood, damp and hushed. Eventually, it opened onto the ruins of a manor choked by ivy and neglect. The so-called “Kiriko House.”

A scream split the silence.

“Help! My partner! He’s dying!”

Several examinees rushed inside.

She did not.

It was too loud. Too clean. Too scripted.

Her eyes drifted to the grass. A faint parting of dew. A single track, winding away from the structure.

She followed it.

Behind the mansion, beneath a veil of vines, she discovered a hidden hatch.

She descended.

Cool air met her skin, a whisper against her illusion. Below, a cavern opened like a mouth, and in its throat: a drama unfolding.

A man—panicked, disheveled—cried out over scattered vials and shattered glass.

“My research! My fungus from the Dark Continent—it’s gone! I needed it to cure Grey Scale!”

Hovering above him, a Kiriko flared its wings, threatening violence.

“He tried to steal from us!”

“No! I just needed a fragment!”

The scene was theatrical. Every note perfectly tuned. Too perfect.

[Firstname] took in the setup, the rhythm of speech, the lack of true desperation.

Her gaze settled on the scientist’s trembling hand.

There. A vial. Hidden.

She stepped forward, voice calm, clear, surgical.

“A fungus that glows. A plague with no record. A scientist who clutches what he claims was stolen. And a Kiriko... too eloquent.”

The insectoid flinched.

She continued. “You seek to test insight, not sympathy. To see who observes the pattern beneath the performance.”

The Kiriko’s form rippled, collapsing into a smaller figure—refined, still alien.

“You are sharper than most,” it said, voice now smooth and resonant.

The “scientist” stood, brushing dust from his coat. “You saw through us both. That was the real test.”

She nodded. “The fungus was bioluminescent moss. The ‘cure’ was empty theatrics.”

“Well done,” the Kiriko said. It gestured to a swirling portal at the back of the chamber. “Beyond here lies the true exam.”

She moved forward, a subtle thrill stirring beneath the potion’s numbness.

Finally.

A real challenge.

She stepped through, the faint echo of the potion’s hum trailing her like a shadow—her power buried, her name forgotten, her mission unchanged.

Kurapika was waiting.
And she would burn the world before she let him fall.

Chapter 14: 12 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

The world changed the moment she stepped off the elevator.

The hiss of metal sealed behind her, shutting out the last breath of surface air. Before her stretched a long, sterile corridor—concrete walls, symmetrical and suffocating, buzzing under rows of cold fluorescent lights. The tunnel seemed to hum with a presence all its own, alive in its silence. Each footstep she took echoed not just physically, but spiritually, like a whisper being carried through the cracks of something deeper—something ancient, something watching.

 

Something hungry.

She didn’t flinch.

After all, she had made it. Just barely.

 

“You are Candidate #407. A buzzer-beater before registration closes.” The proctor’s voice—flat, unaffected—had carried more weight than it should have. She knew it wasn’t meant to draw attention, but it did. It always did.

The eyes came first—before the people. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Curious, wary, assessing. They didn’t see her yet, not truly. They saw a stranger. A latecomer. And a latecomer who arrives without apology, without sweat or panting desperation? That was the kind of entrance that turned heads. She moved forward, steps calm, deliberate. Her posture gave away nothing. That silence she carried wasn’t passive—it was sharp. A calculated absence of sound. And people feared what they couldn’t read.

Her boots—clunky, a few sizes too big for her borrowed form—landed with soft thuds. She wore a traveler’s cloak, tattered and gray, its hood pulled low to shadow her features. Her body felt wrong beneath it. Not her own. The petite frame she wore was stolen, twisted by alchemy and artifice. The disguise clung like damp cloth: irritating, restrictive, but necessary. The illusion was perfect—her height reduced, her eyes dulled by potion, her aura sealed tight beneath her ribs like a coffin never meant to be opened.

 

She hated it.

Every heartbeat felt distant. Her breath, unnaturally shallow. Her power—her true self—trapped beneath a mask woven from spellwork and sacrifice. That was the price of secrecy.

 

That was the toll demanded by Lilith’s Love Potion—a concoction not brewed for affection, but concealment. A temporary identity, suppressing Nen, distorting features, blurring even her soul’s spiritual frequency. To any skilled observer, she was just another weakling hoping to survive the Hunter Exam.And in the sea of strangers, she had never felt more alone.

Her gaze drifted, collecting details like threads in a spider’s web. She didn’t need to see everything—just enough. Enough to know the threats. The weak. The arrogant.

The Amori Brothers were easy to spot. Three men leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, identical in both posture and attitude. Same smug tilt of the head. She remembered them from her father’s dossier—their uncle had once attempted to blackmail her family. He had vanished before the week was out. A warning. The brothers clearly hadn’t inherited caution.

Not far from them stood a large man cloaked in thick animal furs, his breath calm, his weight balanced, every inch of him honed for the kill. A long, polished blowgun rested against his hip. His eyes scanned the room—not lazily, but with a hunter’s precision. Geretta.

She knew the name. Silent killer. Expert tracker. The kind of man who could shoot you from a tree three kilometers away, then take your necklace before your body hit the ground. He wasn’t here to pass the exam. He was here for sport.

And in the far corner—a jarring contrast—a boy, barely into his teens, chattered nervously to a small group. Gangly limbs, wild energy, too loud for the tension in the air. His words tumbled out faster than his thoughts could catch them. Some candidates turned their backs in annoyance. Others cast quiet glances his way, eyes narrowing with distrust. "Amateurs."

Then—her breath hitched.

 

Silver hair.

Small frame.

Sharp posture, hands in his pockets like none of this mattered.

Killua.

A Zoldyck.

 

Her throat tightened. She knew that boy. Had watched him skulk through the mansion’s corridors like a ghost that refused to obey the rules. Always one step ahead of the butlers. Mischievous. Dangerous. Free. While the rest of the Zoldyck clan sharpened their instincts into weapons, Killua shaped his into something more unpredictable—curiosity. He had once tried to steal her jade ring during a quiet afternoon in the garden. Just to see if he could. She’d caught him, of course—but hadn’t told Illumi.

She had liked him then. He reminded her of the life that might have been. Before alliances. Before assassinations. Before the war within her own family became indistinguishable from the one outside it. And now he stood here—alone.

Had he escaped? Or was this a mission?

Had Illumi sent him?

The idea left a sour taste in her mouth. Illumi never moved pieces without purpose. And when he moved family, it was usually for blood.

 

Her gaze flicked away, too quickly. Eyes low. A new presence approached. Greasy, round, sweating confidence. “Hi there!”

She didn’t need to look to know the voice. It oozed false friendliness like spoiled honey. Tonpa. The self-proclaimed "Rookie Crusher." Thirty-three failed attempts at the exam, all with one objective: sabotage. He smiled as he extended a can of juice toward her, both hands out like a peace offering.

A trap.

She accepted the can. It sat in her palm like a dead mouse—light, cold, and clearly tampered. She could smell the Nen laced into the liquid, subtle but malicious. Just enough to give her nausea, or worse, if she were untrained. Her fingers curled.

Crack.

The metal groaned, split, and sprayed across his shoes. Tonpa froze. Then smiled again—tighter, thinner.

“Strong grip, huh? Most girls your size—”

She stepped in, voice a whisper wrapped in steel. “I’m not most girls.”

He paled. Took a step back. Another coward dissolved into the crowd.

 

Her body stood still, but her mind raced. A tension coiled in her gut.

Illumi wasn’t here.

She scanned again—more carefully now. No tall figure in black, no deathly still aura brushing against her spine. Nothing. Not among the candidates. Not among the shadows. That was worse than his presence. That meant he was hiding. Or worse—Disguised.

Her fingers clenched. Was he using Lilith’s brew, too? Like her? Was she already standing near him without realizing? Or—gods forbid— What if Hisoka had lied? Her breath caught.

“He knows him. Hunter Exam.”

That was the message. Scrawled in aura between his fingers way back in Chrollo's hideout, visible only using gyo. She had trusted it. Had packed her supplies, drank the potion, erased her signature from the surveillance grid—all because of two cursed lines.

 

What if it wasn’t a warning?

What if it was bait?

The thought poisoned her bloodstream. Her chest tightened. Her trust in Hisoka was always a gamble, but she’d never thought he’d move her like a pawn.

 

…And then she saw him.

 

Speaking of the devil. Standing just outside the circle of light, where the shadows of the tunnel licked the edges of the concrete wall. Hisoka
He hadn’t changed. Or rather, he changed constantly but never truly. That wild red hair fell in effortless waves, framing a face that could smile with innocence or slit your throat with a glance. Arms folded, head tilted slightly, as if studying a piece of abstract art that fascinated him not because it was beautiful—

 

But because it might break in just the right way.

 

His eyes met hers.

Not a flicker of surprise. Only interest. And not the kind she used to see when he leaned too close, when he whispered poison into her ear and tasted danger like it was dessert.

No—this was something colder.

More deliberate.

 

He was studying her like a new card added to his deck. One he hadn’t decided whether to keep or tear in half. Her pulse spiked—but she didn’t look away. If she blinked first, she’d already lost. He moved.

One slow, exaggerated step forward. Then another. The crowd subconsciously shifted, parting like prey sensing the predator too late.

 

She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. Not because of fear. Because of calculation.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said softly, voice like velvet wrapped around barbed wire. “And dressed down. That’s new.”

She said nothing. Let the silence press into the space between them like tension on a tripwire. Hisoka grinned wider.

“Oh, don’t pout. You’re still charming,” he added, cocking his head. “Though… not glowing. Not buzzing. Not even twitching with aura.” He leaned in slightly, eyes half-lidded. “You feel dead, darling. Like a paper doll.”

She let her lips part just enough to speak. “Disappointed?”

His smile sharpened. “Curious.”

Her jaw clenched. Of course he was. To Hisoka, mystery was the greatest aphrodisiac. “You sent me the message,” she said quietly.

He nodded once, theatrically. “I did.”

“You said Illumi was here.”

“I said he knows him. ‘Hunter Exam.’ Those were the exact words, weren't they?” He tapped a finger to his temple. “I remember it perfectly. Had to rehearse it, too—so your ex-boyfriend wouldn’t catch on.”

"Chrollo is not my ex."

He grinned. "As you should." The air between them gets thinned as Hisoka steps forward.

“You lied.”

“Did I?” His eyes glittered. “Or did I tell the truth you wanted to believe?”

She stepped closer—just one pace—but it was enough to steal the air between them. “If you’re playing me, Hisoka…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, voice dropping into something darker, something genuine. “I’m always playing you.”

His fingers twitched. Not toward her, but near his waist, where his cards waited—thin blades wrapped in killing intent. The gesture was subtle. Intentional. A message. He was ready to test her.

 

And she?

She wanted to rip the illusion apart.

 

But not here. Not yet.

Not without Nen. Not when she doesn't know where Illumi is. Not with too many eyes.

 

So instead, she let a slow smile stretch across her lips. Cold. Composed.

“Careful, Hisoka,” she whispered. “You’re not the only one who plays games.”

He chuckled. “No. But I do play best.”

She leaned in, letting her breath brush his cheek. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then she turned and walked away. Her back exposed. Her aura still sealed. Her body still weakened. But every step said: I dare you.

Hisoka watched her go. His gaze burned holes in the back of her cloak.

 

He didn’t follow.

He didn’t need to.

Because she knew, without looking, that he was smiling again.

Not with malice.

Not with love.

But with hunger.

Chapter 15: 13 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

The tunnel echoed with hundreds of footsteps—some frantic, others rhythmic. The walls stretched on, endlessly gray, humming with the low, almost hypnotic whine of fluorescent lights. The proctor, with his absurdly long mustache trailing behind him, led the way at a brisk but steady pace, his back a vanishing point in the corridor’s narrowing distance.

She kept her pace even. Running too fast would burn her out; too slow would risk falling behind. It was a delicate line, and one she had no intention of stumbling on. The Lilith’s Love Potion still coursed through her, sealing her Nen and tethering her to this borrowed form—a girl small enough to vanish into a crowd. And vanish she had to. The storm hadn’t even started yet.

A boy surged past her with ease, his white hair gleaming like a flicker of lightning beneath the tunnel lights. He was short—perhaps just her height—but the confidence in his stride was unmistakable. A playful glint danced in his blue eyes, the kind that could switch to killing intent in a heartbeat. Killua.

Killua had been younger then, more curious than cold, his questions always tinged with the kind of insight only a Zoldyck could afford. Even now, disguised as she was, she wondered if he would recognize her. Her voice, her aura—both were locked away. She was a stranger in his world again.

 

She narrowed her eyes. Does he know I’m here?

 

And Illumi…

Her stomach knotted. In all this chaos, he should’ve been the easiest to spot. That specific chill in the air when he was near—quiet, heavy, and suffocating—should’ve choked her by now. But she felt nothing. No icy spike. No cold breath at her neck. No sign.

 

Is he even here?

Had Hisoka lied? Had this all been some elaborate ruse to bring her into his game?

 

Her lips curled with a bitter twinge. Of course Hisoka would lie. If it amused him, he'd tear open the sky and call it a magic trick. But the alternative—that Illumi was here, in disguise so perfect even she couldn't recognize him—made her skin crawl. That kind of concealment would require mastery beyond even her expectations. The thought wasn’t comforting. It was terrifying. Because it meant he could be right behind her, above her, within reach, and she’d never know until it was too late.

 

Up ahead, a familiar voice cut through the sound of labored breaths.

 

“Pace yourself, rookie! Don’t wanna burn out in the first leg, do ya?” It's Tonpa.

 

He jogged beside her, a little too comfortably, a little too practiced. His round form didn’t fit the picture of an endurance runner, but the man had done this before—too many times. His perpetual grin was already damp with sweat, though his breath hadn’t hitched once.

 

“Surprised you’re keeping up,” he said, eyeing her from the corner of his vision. “Tiny thing like you. But I guess #407’s full of surprises.”

 

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

 

“You know,” he continued, nudging closer, “this test ain’t about speed. It’s about knowing when to conserve and when to push. Some people don’t figure that out until they drop like flies.”

 

He chuckled to himself, slowing down slightly as if expecting her to follow. She didn’t.“Suit yourself, hero.”

 

As he fell back into the crowd, her eyes flicked forward—past a huddle of clustered candidates, past the pounding feet and gasping lungs—She caught flashes of other candidates in motion. Geretta, #16, was running at a calculated pace, conserving every ounce of energy. The Amori brothers, #38 and #39, were locked in step, their smug confidence betraying how many years they had failed before. A grotesque figure with stitched-together skin—#301—ran with eerie grace, untouched by fatigue or fear.

 

Kurapika… still no sign. A flicker of disappointment knotted beneath her ribs, quickly suppressed. Maybe he was ahead. Hopefully.

 

She gritted her teeth and kept moving.

 

The marathon through the tunnel became a test of endurance, of sanity. Hours bled into one another, the unchanging concrete walls a relentless blur. The air grew thick with the smell of sweat and desperation. One by one, candidates began to drop—their bodies heaving, their faces pale with exhaustion. She saw Tonpa again jog past a few, his smile as fresh as if he'd just started, his eyes scanning for new prey. His stamina was impressive, if his methods were pathetic.

She kept her pace steady, a measured rhythm of breath and stride. She was used to pushing her body beyond its limits, but this was different. This was survival without her primary tool. It was frustrating, like trying to carve a stone with a blunt spoon.

 

Eventually, a faint, growing light up ahead signaled the end. The tunnel opened up into a sprawling, mist-shrouded swamp. The air immediately changed, heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. The sudden transition from the monotonous tunnel to the eerie, living landscape was jarring.

 

One by one, the candidates arrived, panting, bent over, drenched in sweat. When the last footsteps echoed through the tunnel, Satotz began. “You’ve made it past the first leg. But don’t relax just yet.” His voice was clipped, impassive. “We are now at the edge of the Numere Wetlands—sometimes called the Swindler’s Paradise. Many of the creatures here use deception to hunt. They will mimic what you know. What you trust. Even each other.” The crowd murmured. “I advise you to trust no one but your instincts.”

 

But then— “Ignore him,” said another voice. She turned. Her breath hitched.

 

"He's a fake! I am the real Examiner, the one and only! This is all a trap! The Hunter Association hired me, a man of truth! He's just a poser wearing a suit!"

 

The crowd froze. Their exhaustion gave way to confusion. Satotz remained perfectly still, his blank face giving nothing away. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply stood there, a silent statue of composure, letting the examinees decide for themselves.

 

“What the hell?” someone hissed. “Which one’s real?!”

 

A wave of panic rippled through the group. Some backed away from Satotz. Others yelled questions at the creature. She watched, her mind a cold, calculating machine. The creature’s movements were too exaggerated, its speech too loud. It was a caricature, not a man. But Satotz’s silence was the real test.

 

Then, a flicker of movement.

 

Hisoka, stepping out of the throng, a sinister smile playing on his lips. He held a deck of cards. With a flick of his wrist, two razor-sharp cards flew through the air, one aimed at Satotz, the other at the creature.

 

The card meant for Satotz was caught with inhuman speed between his gloved fingers, a silent display of mastery. The one meant for the creature, however, struck true. With a wet smack, it embedded itself in the creature’s forehead. The creature crumpled, its human-like face melting away to reveal the true face of a hideous ape.

 

Hisoka stood a few paces away, shuffling his cards. "I see it now." he chuckled, his eyes glinting. "You are the real examiner."

 

A collective gasp rose from the crowd. "Ehh?! He's the real one?!"

 

Hisoka's gaze swept over the bewildered applicants, his voice dripping with condescension. "An examiner is a Hunter hired by the Selection Committee to serve for free." He gestured dismissively towards the dissolving ape. "They might not be the Hunters we aspire to be, but a real examiner would have easily dodged that attack."

Satotz regarded Hisoka calmly, his eyes unblinking. "I'll take that as a compliment." His voice was calm, yet it held an undeniable edge of warning. "However, to attack an examiner for any reason is a violation of the rules. If you attack me again, you will be immediately disqualified. Do you understand?"

 

Hisoka's smile widened into a predatory grin. Before he responded, he caught her eyes, and with that smirk on his face, she knew he was saying, I knew you were watching.

A hot flush of annoyance spread through her, quickly suppressed. This whole performance, then, she thought, a bitter taste in her mouth. The card trick, the explanation, the daring challenge to Satotz… it was all for her. A peacock fanning its feathers. He wanted her to see his strength, his ruthlessness. He wanted her to acknowledge his power, even in this weakened state. It was Hisoka’s twisted version of a love confession, a deadly dance just for her.

 

With a slight bow of his head towards Satotz, a silent acknowledgment of the rules, he began to move again, his strides long and effortless as he vanished into the thick fog.

 

The candidates surged forward, their confusion replaced by a new, more visceral fear. She stepped into the murky water, her boot sinking into the thick mud. The ground here was soft, unforgiving. The swamp was a lie, but she was a master of lies. She moved through the deceptive landscape like a ghost, silent and unseen. She saw Killua, hop effortlessly from one patch of solid ground to another. He seemed to navigate the swamp with an almost supernatural ease. A few meters from him, she caught a glimpse of Hisoka. He was walking on the surface of the mud as if it were solid ground, his aura shimmering, a taunting display of power. He wasn't even touching the water.

 

Show-off, she thought, a spark of pure, unadulterated annoyance cutting through her exhaustion. He was toying with them, a cat with a nest of mice.

 

A rustle in the reeds to her left. A familiar scent. Not human. Something… reptilian. A creature, mimicking the sound of a panicking examinee, a desperate cry for help. A group of candidates, their faces pale, changed direction to follow the sound.

 

She ignored it. Her focus was absolute. On the path ahead, on the subtle shift of the mist, on the faint, true trail left by Satotz. Her Nen was sealed, but her years of instinct, her knowledge of deception, were not.

 

The swamp was a lie, but she was a master of lies. She moved through the deceptive landscape like a ghost, silent and unseen.

 

As the fog thickened, she heard a voice, a distinct shout of frustration. "Dammit, Leorio! Where'd you go?!" It was a young boy's voice. A familiar one from the starting line.

 

Then another, gruff and annoyed. "I told you to keep up, you brat! We're split up now!"

 

She changed her course. The voices were nearby, and from the direction of the shouts, she could tell they were lost. The bog was a labyrinth of mud and illusion, and they had clearly fallen for one of its traps.

 

She moved silently through the dense reeds, her footsteps almost muffled in the thick muck. Ahead, shrouded in the shifting mist, she saw two figures. One was a tall, lanky man in a surprisingly neat navy blue suit, his briefcase clutched in one hand as he struggled to pull a long, gnarled branch from the jaws of a monstrous, giraffe-necked creature. He looked utterly flustered, his glasses askew, veins standing out on his neck. This must be the one shouting. Beside him, battling a thick vine that seemed to writhe like a snake, was a familiar, slender figure. His golden-blond hair, distinctive and bright, seemed to shimmer even in the gloom, and his posture, though strained, held an inherent grace.

 

Kurapika.

 

Her heart gave a violent lurch, a sudden, almost painful throb beneath her ribs. The dull ache of loneliness that had been a constant thrum beneath her disguise now ignited, throbbing with a singular, fierce purpose. She had found him. He was here, battling the swamp's deceptions, alive and real. It had only been weeks, yet it felt like a lifetime since she'd seen him.

 

They were arguing, unaware of the lurking dangers beyond their immediate struggle with the creature. A loud thug. The massive, giraffe-like silhouette of the creature, a Nogging Logging Tortoise, swung its head wildly, the mist momentarily clearing to reveal its grotesque form: a lumbering, carnivore beast far more massive than any ordinary tortoise, its beady eyes fixed on the man in the suit.

 

Without a thought, driven by instinct honed to a razor's edge, she moved. Her hand shot out, grabbing the collar of the tall man’s suit with surprising force, yanking him back just as the tortoise’s powerful, suctioning bite snapped shut on empty air. The vacuum it created pulled mud and reeds into its gaping maw, narrowly missing the man's arm. The branch, released from his stubborn grip, disappeared into the tortoise's mouth with a loud thug. Kurapika, who had been focused on the vine, whirled around, his intelligent eyes widening in surprise at her sudden appearance.

 

The Nogging Logging Tortoise’s beady eyes fixed on her, its massive head tilting. It was confused by the sudden intervention, its hunting rhythm broken. She didn't have her Nen, the potion locking it away, but she had a lifetime of honed reflexes and a brutal understanding of anatomy. With a hard, swift kick to the creature's vulnerable jaw, she sent it stumbling back into the reeds, a surprised, gurgling croak escaping its throat.

 

The tall man stumbled, his eyes wide. "What the—? Hey, watch it!"

Kurapika’s golden-brown eyes, sharp and intelligent, fixed on her. "Thank you," he said, his voice measured, analytical. "You saved him from certain death."

She took a step back, her heart still hammering against her ribs. She was close. So close. She could reach out and touch him. But her disguise... she had to maintain it.

"Just saw you were about to be lunch," she said, her voice intentionally flat and calm.

The other guy brushed the mud off his suit. "Lunch? That thing almost had me! Who are you, anyway? You move fast for... uh, for a girl your size."

"A passing examinee. #407," she answered, the lie feeling heavy on her tongue.

Kurapika gave a slight nod. "I am Kurapika. And this is Leorio."

 

“I’m…” She paused. Not sure what name she will come up because clearly she cannot use her original name, then suddenly a name surge in her mind as if inviting her to use it. “Atinelle.”

Chapter 16: 14 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡

The name, 'Atinelle,' felt strange on her tongue, an unfamiliar whisper. It had surfaced from some forgotten corner of her mind, a ghost of a name, but it served its purpose. It was a blank slate, a shield to protect the true identity sealed beneath the potion's magic. Kurapika and Leorio, oblivious to the storm simmering beneath her calm facade, seemed to accept it without question.

"Atinelle," Kurapika repeated, a quiet nod of acknowledgment. His golden-brown eyes, though filled with a simmering intensity she knew all too well, held no recognition, only polite assessment. It was a relief, and a sharp pang of loneliness, all at once. He doesn’t see me. He sees a stranger. That was the point of the disguise, of course. But the reality of it, standing so close to him, unable to truly connect, was a bitter pill.

"Well, Atinelle, thanks for the save," Leorio grumbled, adjusting his briefcase. "This swamp's a pain in the neck."

"Keep your eyes open," she responded, her voice flat, devoid of emotion, just as the potion muffled her true timbre. "There are more than just frogs here."

 

The air in the Numere Wetlands grew heavier with each step, thick with mist and the stench of decay. The ground was a treacherous deception, soft mud hiding deeper pits, solid-looking clumps of earth dissolving into treacherous bogs. Figures moved through the fog like phantoms, some blindly following the supposed 'safe' paths, others clearly lost, their desperate shouts swallowed by the eerie silence.

[Firstname] moved with practiced stealth, her boots barely disturbing the surface of the mud. Her Nen was sealed, but her senses, honed by a lifetime of danger, were acute. She could feel the subtle shifts in the air, the faint vibrations in the ground, the minute changes in temperature that betrayed hidden dangers. She guided Kurapika and Leorio with subtle nudges, a slight shift in her direction, a fractional slowing of pace, pulling them away from sinking patches or the hidden lairs of lurking creatures. They didn't seem to notice her silent guidance, attributing their survival to luck or their own burgeoning instincts.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Leorio complained, his suit already stained with mud. "It all looks the same!"

"I can still follow him," Kurapika stated, his eyes scanning the mist, a focused intensity in their depths. "He's leaving a faint but consistent trail in the mud. We just need to keep moving towards it."

A trail, [Firstname] thought, a pang of frustration. Her own suppressed Nen felt like a dull ache beneath her ribs, a roaring power muted to a whisper. If she could unleash even a fraction of it, this swamp would be child's play, every hidden creature, every deceptive patch of ground, exposed. But secrecy was paramount. And the thought of Illumi, potentially disguised and lurking, made her blood run cold. She cast a furtive glance around, searching for that familiar, suffocating stillness that betrayed his presence, but found nothing. Only the swamp's natural, heavy silence.

 

A sudden, high-pitched scream cut through the fog, followed by a sickening wet thud. All three of them froze.

"What was that?" Leorio whispered, his eyes wide.

"Sounds like someone just became lunch," [Firstname] murmured, her eyes already tracking the source of the sound. A large, iridescent butterfly with grotesque, human-like eyes fluttered sluggishly out of the mist, something dark and fleshy clutched in its multi-jointed legs. It deposited its meal onto a patch of solid ground before it, beginning to tear at the flesh with its proboscis.

"It's a Human-Eating Butterfly," Kurapika stated, his voice tight. "They wait for exhausted travelers to fall, then consume them."

"Ugh, disgusting!" Leorio shivered, looking away.

"They're also good at mimicking human voices," [Firstname] added, remembering a few of her father's more exotic prisoners who had made the mistake of wandering into such a habitat. "Don't fall for any cries for help."

As if on cue, a faint, desperate wail drifted through the fog. "Help me! I'm hurt! Someone, anyone!"

Leorio instinctively began to turn, but Kurapika grabbed his arm. "Don't! It's a trick!"

[Firstname] watched, a detached sense of morbid fascination. It was a predictable, yet effective, trap. The despair in the mimicked voice was perfectly rendered, a potent lure for the empathetic or the desperate. She had no empathy left to spare, only cold observation.

 

---

 

The journey continued, a grim, silent march through the deceptive swamp. The cries of the mimicked victims, the splashes of creatures in the murky water, the occasional desperate shout of a truly lost applicant – it all blended into a terrifying symphony of elimination. Leorio's complaints grew less frequent, replaced by a grim determination. Kurapika remained vigilant, his focus unwavering.

A sudden flash of movement to their left broke the monotony. Through a momentary clearing in the fog, they saw him—Hisoka. He was cornered, not by a swamp creature, but by a handful of human applicants, their faces contorted with a mix of fear and desperate resolve. They were clearly outmatched, foolishly trying to gang up on the magician.

"Finally," Leorio muttered, looking triumphant. "Someone's putting that freak in his place!"

"Don't be stupid, Leorio," Kurapika warned, his voice sharp. "He's Hisoka. They don't stand a chance."

[Firstname] remained silent, watching the unfolding scene with a cold fascination. It was over before it truly began. Hisoka moved with a terrifying grace, a blur of motion. There were no elaborate tricks, no flamboyant displays, just brutal efficiency. A flash of cards, a sickening crunch, and the men crumpled to the muddy ground, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles. One was impaled to a tree by a single card; another had his windpipe crushed. Hisoka didn't even seem to be breathing hard.

He stood over the fallen, a chilling smile on his face, his eyes glinting with a savage satisfaction. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted. It swept past the dying, past the reeds, and landed directly on the trio.

 

[Firstname]'s breath hitched. She felt it immediately—an oppressive weight, like the air itself had solidified around them, pressing in from all sides. Hisoka's aura, raw and palpable, washed over them, suffocating, paralyzing. It wasn't an attack, not yet. It was a demonstration, an immovable force of nature. Every instinct screamed to run, to vanish, but her feet were rooted to the muck. Leorio's face paled, his eyes wide with terror. Kurapika, though trembling slightly, met Hisoka's gaze with defiance, a flicker of his own formidable resolve.

He's doing this on purpose, [Firstname] realized, her mind a frantic whir. He wants us to know. He wants us to feel it. The pressure was an extension of Hisoka's will, a playful demonstration of absolute power. And it was all for her. A sick, twisted game designed to remind her of her vulnerability, of her powerlessness in this borrowed, Nen-less form. He’s gloating. He wants to see me squirm. Her teeth clenched, digging into the inside of her cheek.

Hisoka’s grin widened, a silent acknowledgment of their predicament.

"We need to run," Kurapika whispered, his voice strained, though his gaze never left Hisoka. "At my signal, we run. Different directions. There's no fighting him."

Leorio, still frozen, could only nod.

[Firstname] understood. Kurapika was right. They weren’t a match. Not now. Not like this. Her sealed Nen rendered her useless in a direct confrontation. She prepared herself, tensing every muscle, focusing on the moment the pressure would lift, the second they could break free.

"Now!" Kurapika shouted, and he immediately spun, splashing through the mud to the left. [Firstname] darted right, her movements precise, relying on instinct. Leorio, however, hesitated. His eyes, fixed on Hisoka, narrowed with a surge of something desperate and foolish.

He bolted into the mist with surprising speed, disappearing left. Atinelle reacted instantly, veering right—but her feet hesitated just a second too long. A second was all it took.

 

Because Hisoka moved.

Not toward Kurapika. Not toward Leorio.

But toward her.

 

A blur, sudden and terrifyingly quiet. One moment, he stood over the fallen; the next, he was in front of her.

Too close.

 

Hisoka’s hand pressed gently—almost tenderly—against her chest, halting her motion like she was no more than a leaf drifting on the wind. He leaned in, their faces inches apart.

“You were going to run without saying goodbye?” he murmured, voice low and silky, the sound curling into her ear like a whispered curse.

Her heart pounded—not from fear. From fury. From helplessness.

“Move,” she snarled under her breath, though her tone never rose.

He tilted his head, like a cat watching its prey twitch before the final pounce. “But we were having such fun.”

His fingers twitched, not quite grasping her—but nearly. She felt the ghost of his touch even through her disguise, and it made her skin crawl.

“I could peel this little mask off,” he whispered, tapping lightly over her heart with two fingers. “Just a little tear. Wouldn’t take much. One drop of Nen, one crack in that shell, and I’d see you.”

Her jaw clenched. “And if you did…?” she asked.

Hisoka’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then I’d stop being bored.”

 

For a second, she saw something—something deep and real and old in him. Not love. Not obsession. Something closer to hunger sharpened by nostalgia.

But then, he stepped back.

Like a magician finishing a trick, he flourished one hand in mock apology. “But I’ll behave. For now.”

 

Hisoka was about to walk away when she saw Leorio charging at them.

"Leorio, NO!" [Firstname] hissed, pivoting mid-stride. He wasn't running. He was turning back.

"You freak!" Leorio roared, abandoning any pretense of escape. He push her out of the way and flung his branch at Hisoka, a pathetic but furious act of defiance.

Hisoka merely tilted his head, letting the branch sail harmlessly past him. Then suddenly, Hisoka has been hit by a fishing rod. A boy burst out of the fog, leaping over a fallen tree trunk, his small fishing rod held out before him.

"Get away from Leorio!" the boy shouted, his voice surprisingly clear and determined. He cast his line with incredible speed, the weighted bobber shooting towards Hisoka's face.

Hisoka, momentarily intrigued, allowed the bobber to tap him lightly on the cheek. He chuckled, his eyes now solely on the new arrival, a new, unsettling fascination blooming in their depths. "Oh? You’re quite the curious little one, aren’t you?" He completely disregarded Leorio, whose initial charge had fizzled into a pathetic standstill.

 

No, Leorio, you idiot! [Firstname] thought, adrenaline coursing through her. I need to save him from his idiocracy. Don’t waste this chance! She sprinted back towards him, intending to grab him and force him to retreat while Hisoka was distracted.

But Leorio, fueled by a renewed surge of misguided courage, ignored the opening. "You son of a—!" he bellowed, charging forward again, fists clenched.

Hisoka's eyes flickered from the boy to Leorio, a flicker of boredom replacing his amusement. He extended a hand, not with a card, but with a casual, almost dismissive punch. The blow connected with Leorio's jaw with a sickening crack. Leorio's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed into the shallow, muddy water, unconscious.

 

[Firstname] skidded to a halt, too late. Her disguise pulsed with the effort of holding her Nen in check, of restraining her true power. He's playing with them. All of them. And I can't do a thing. The humiliation was a raw, burning knot in her chest.

 

Hisoka simply sighed, a dramatic expression of mild disappointment. He then bent down, effortlessly scooping Leorio's unconscious form over his shoulder.

"Looks like your friend needs a ride," Hisoka purred to the boy, his eyes still sparkling with interest. "I suppose I'll take him with me to the Second Phase. After all, it would be a shame for such... spirited participants to be eliminated so early."

With Leorio casually slung over his shoulder like a sack of laundry, Hisoka began to walk deeper into the swamp, his figure vanishing into the fog, heading towards the looming outline of the Second Phase site. The boy, still wide-eyed but surprisingly undeterred, quickly followed. Kurapika, after a moment of stunned silence, also began to move, his gaze hardened with a new resolve.

 

[Firstname] stared at the spot where Hisoka and Leorio had disappeared. The frustration was a raw, burning knot in her chest. She had seen it all—Hisoka's terrifying power, his cruel amusement, his unsettling interest in Gon. And she had done nothing but watch. This disguise is a cage, she thought, her hands clinching into fists. A necessary cage. But a cage nonetheless.

 

Taking a deep breath, she shook off the paralysis and followed Kurapika, her own path now clearer, yet fraught with even greater peril because Hisoka was only playing for keeps. Keeping her for him.

Chapter 17: 15 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

The mist clung to The dark-haired kid, Kurapika, and Atinelle as they pushed deeper into the Numere Wetlands, the unsettling sound of Hisoka's retreating chuckle still echoing in the damp air. Leorio was gone, carried off by the mad clown, and a new tension settled over the remaining trio. The kid, despite the shock of seeing Hisoka’s casual brutality, seemed almost energized by the encounter, his eyes bright with a dangerous curiosity. Kurapika was grim, his silent resolve hardening.

 

Atinelle, meanwhile, moved with a calculated grace that belied her small frame. She kept pace with Kurapika, her peripheral vision tracking the other. His natural aura, unrefined but brimming with raw potential, hummed in the swamp air. It was a stark contrast to Hisoka's predatory malice, but equally captivating in its own way. A true diamond in the rough. She could see why Hisoka was drawn to him. He wants to break him. Or polish him. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

 

"Are you okay?" The boy asked, his voice surprisingly soft as he fell into step beside Atinelle, his large eyes studying her. She hadn't said much since they met.

 

"Fine," she replied, her voice still carefully modulated, flat and emotionless. She kept her gaze forward, feigning disinterest. Too much interaction would risk her disguise.

 

The boy, however, seemed undeterred. "You move really fast! You almost got Leorio out of the way!" His energy was infectious, a stark contrast to the oppressive swamp. "Are you a good fighter?"

 

If you only knew, she thought, a flicker of dark amusement. "I manage."

 

He grinned, an open, trusting expression that was unnerving. "That's cool! I want to be strong like that too! Oh yeah, I forgot to introduce myself hehe... I'm Gon!"

 

"Atinelle, here."

 

Just then, a distant, piercing shriek cut through the fog—the call of a Nagaraja. It signaled the nearing end of the wetlands, and with it, the conclusion of the First Phase. The air grew slightly clearer, the stench of decay slowly replaced by the fresher, albeit still damp, scent of open air.

 

---

 

The ominous silhouette of a grand, multi-tiered cooking facility emerged from the mist. Relief washed over the exhausted applicants as they stumbled onto solid ground, gathering in front of the building. Satotz, ever stoic, stood waiting.

 

"Congratulations," Satotz announced, his voice echoing across the swamp's edge. "All who have made it here have passed the First Phase of the Hunter Exam."

 

A collective cheer erupted, quickly followed by groans as many realized the next challenge was already before them. In the middle of a some mansion's courtyard, there's a podium. A two new examiners awaited atop of it: Menchi, a short, fiery woman with a sharp gaze and an even sharper tongue, and Buhara, a giant of a man with an insatiable appetite.

 

"Welcome to the Second Phase!" Menchi declared, a smirk playing on her lips. "This phase is about cuisine! Your task: to prepare a dish that satisfies us."

 

The applicants murmured, confusion rippling through the ranks. Cooking? In a Hunter Exam?

 

Buhara, ever the pragmatist, chimed in, "The main ingredient is already decided: Pork!"

 

Chaos erupted as hundreds of applicants rushed back into the wetlands, eager to capture the massive, pig-like creatures. Atinelle watched, her mind already calculating. The Great Stamp was known for its incredible speed and brute force. Others would try to overpower it, or chase it until exhaustion.

 

She waited. She observed the stampede of applicants, the frantic shouts, the frustrated grunts as they were easily outmaneuvered or knocked aside by the surprisingly agile beasts. She saw Gon, quick and intuitive, finding a strategy to predict their head-butting patterns. She saw Kurapika, analytical and precise, attempting to find a weakness.

 

When the majority had returned, battered and often empty-handed, she finally moved. Her approach was simple. Instead of chasing, she found a narrow choke point, a muddy embankment bordering a dense thicket. She stood perfectly still, a silent, unassuming figure, blending into the muted colors of the swamp. When a Great Stamp thundered towards her, seeking to burst through the bottleneck, she didn't dodge or fight. With a fluid, almost imperceptible motion, she met its charge not with force, but with a perfectly placed hand, guiding its momentum just enough to send it sprawling, its massive weight causing it to slide helplessly into the mud-filled ditch beside her. It struggled, squealing, unable to regain its footing.

 

She calmly retrieved a rope from her cloak and tied its legs, then dragged it back, a feat of effortless strength that few noticed in the general clamor of other applicants presenting their (mostly failed) attempts.

 

The cooking portion began. Dish after dish was presented: burnt, raw, flavorless, or simply inedible. Menchi's temper flared with each disaster, while Buhara ate everything. Rejection after rejection. The air grew thick with despair. Many applicants were eliminated, furious at being judged on something so seemingly irrelevant to being a Hunter.

 

Atinelle was among the last to present, having taken her time to meticulously prepare her dish. The Great Stamp meat, unlike the tough, gristly failures of others, was perfectly seared, a rich, golden-brown. She had used a handful of herbs she’d gathered from the edges of the swamp, grinding them with precision using a smooth stone and a flat rock. The aroma, though subtle, was tantalizing.

 

She presented a single, artfully arranged portion on a clean leaf. The meat was sliced thin, revealing its succulent interior, lightly garnished with delicate, wild greens. It was simple, elegant, and devoid of any overt flamboyance.

 

Menchi looked at the plate with a skeptical eye, her arms crossed. "Another one? What could you possibly have done differently?"

 

Atinelle merely stood silently, her expression unreadable.

 

Menchi took a bite. Her eyes widened. Then, she took another and another. A faint flush crept up her cheeks. "This... this is... incredible!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine surprise and pleasure. "The texture is perfect! The seasoning is so subtle, yet it brings out the richness of the meat! How did you achieve this?!"

 

Buhara, whose enormous almost full stomach, snatched the rest of the portion. He devoured it in two bites, his eyes rolling back in pure bliss. "Delicious! Truly delicious!" he rumbled, giving a rare, satisfied smile.

 

"Passed!" Menchi announced, slamming her hand on the table. "Applicant #407, Atinelle, you pass!"

 

A collective gasp swept through the remaining applicants. She was the first, and only, to succeed.

 

Atinelle gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Her mind drifted back to the Zoldyck estate, to the endless, suffocating lessons in perfection. Illumi, in his own strange way, had been a connoisseur of food. Every meal, every snack, every drop of tea had to be prepared with absolute precision, with an exact balance of flavors and textures. Anything less was met with silent disapproval that felt worse than any punishment. She had spent years perfecting the art of pleasing his almost inhumanly refined palate, learning to identify the minute imperfections, the subtle imbalances others would never notice.

 

'He wouldn't have tolerated anything less' she thought, the edges of her mouth curling bitterly. 'Not even now. Not even this.'

 

And yet… a part of her still felt like she was chasing that invisible nod. That flicker of acknowledgment that never came, even as she excelled.

Why does it still matter?

 

She clenched her hands behind her back, nails digging into her palms. Because Illumi wasn’t just a shadow of her past. He was out there, somewhere, watching or hiding or waiting. And every perfect plate, every flawless cut, every success—it all still felt like it belonged to him, a product of his twisted training. You made me this way, she thought, her expression unreadable as the crowd murmured in awe around her. But I’ll be the one to finish it. And when she finally unmasked herself—when this disguise melted away and her Nen returned in full—he would see.

 

Not the girl who served him tea.

 

Not the puppet who carved his favorite dish to specification. But the woman who walked into the storm of the Hunter Exam and emerged—

flawless,

unbroken,

and no longer his.

 

And so, thanks to a lifetime spent meticulously perfecting her culinary skills under the obsessive, perfectionist demands of her former fiancé, Illumi, Atinelle had effortlessly conquered the most unexpected challenge of the Hunter Exam.

 

She had passed.

 

Chapter 18: 16 | 𝐀𝐧 𝐄𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐲

The roar of success from a few, and the exasperated groans from the many, echoed through the vast kitchen facility. Menchi, though still stern, had, under Netero's guidance, given the applicants a second chance. The challenge this time was simpler, designed to test their basic culinary instincts rather than gourmet skills: boil a single egg.

[Firstname], meanwhile, stood slightly apart, having been excused to a waiting area almost immediately after her flawless presentation. Her success had been so quick, so absolute, that it seemed to stun even the examiners themselves.

As the frantic activity of the second chance boiled (quite literally) around her, a figure approached, his steps soft, almost unheard. Chairman Netero, the enigmatic leader of the Hunter Association, stood before her, a deceptively benign smile on his face.

"Applicant #407, Atinelle, was it?" he began, his voice surprisingly spry for his age. "A truly remarkable display. To capture the Great Stamp with such effortless precision, and then to present a dish of such exquisite quality... you have a discerning palate and a keen understanding of subtlety. You passed with flying colors, my dear. The first, and truly, the only one to perfectly satisfy Menchi's high standards today."

"Thank you, Chairman." [Firstname] offered a shallow bow, her expression remaining neutral. Internally, a flicker of something close to satisfaction bloomed, then withered. Praise from Netero, a man whose presence hummed with an undeniable power, meant little to the fundamental ache within her. It's not his approval I crave. Or fear. Yet, the thought that her skills, honed in such a brutal fashion, were undeniably effective, was a cold comfort.

 

---

 

She remained in the waiting area, observing the chaos of the second chance. Most applicants managed the boiled egg, though some still found a way to fail. Menchi's pronouncements were quicker now, though no less cutting. Leorio, she noted, with a grin and a proud flourish, presented a perfectly cooked egg alongside Gon and Kurapika. He had passed. The three of them looked exhausted but relieved.

Hours later, as the last of the successful applicants were ushered onto the airship, [Firstname] allowed herself to move towards the main cabin. The airship was a sanctuary of sorts, free from the physical trials, but the emotional and psychological pressures were just beginning. She found a quiet seat, observing.

 

A familiar voice called out, "Atinelle! You made it!"

It was Leorio, grinning, his briefcase slung over his shoulder. He was flanked by Gon and Kurapika, and beside them, a new face: a boy with spiky silver hair and sharp, blue eyes. Killua.

"You were amazing!" Gon chirped, his eyes shining. "Menchi was so shocked! How did you get the Great Stamp so easily? And your cooking smelled incredible!"

"Yeah, Netero himself was talking about you," Leorio added, puffing out his chest, seemingly having forgotten his previous embarrassment. "First one to pass, straight through!"

Kurapika offered a small, respectful nod. "It was impressive, Atinelle. Your technique was flawless."

[Firstname] felt the familiar, almost painful constriction in her chest at Kurapika's compliment. It was genuine, uncomplicated, and therefore, dangerous. She managed a slight inclination of her head. "Thank you."

Killua, meanwhile, had been studying her, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. He said nothing, merely watched, a quiet intensity that reminded her, unnervingly, of another Zoldyck.

Gon, oblivious, gestured to Killua. "Oh, this is Killua! He runs really fast and he's super strong!"

"Hi," Killua said, his voice flat, but his eyes never leaving her.

"Atinelle," she responded, maintaining the same flat tone. She could feel his gaze, dissecting her, searching for something. She made sure he found nothing.

 

The brief exchange was cut short as other applicants began to spread out, finding spots to rest. The quad—Gon, Kurapika, Leorio, and Killua—found seats nearby, their chatter a comforting murmur in the vast cabin. [Firstname] settled into her own silence, acutely aware of Killua's proximity, and the unspoken threat he represented if her true identity were ever revealed.

Then, a shift. Not in the airship's hum, but in the very fabric of the air itself. A profound, almost unnatural stillness began to permeate the space, like a vacuum slowly expanding, absorbing all sound and light, leaving behind only a chilling, heavy void. It was a sensation [Firstname] knew intimately, a presence that had haunted her nightmares and dictated her waking life.

Her breath hitched, painfully. Her lungs burned, starved of air. A cold wave of recognition, sharp as a blade, lanced through her. Her carefully constructed composure threatened to shatter. Her eyes, already scanning the room with practiced caution, locked onto a figure that had just entered the cabin from a side corridor.

 

Applicant #301. Gittarackur.

 

The sight was a grotesque affront to her senses, yet terrifyingly familiar. The elongated limbs, the contorted posture, the face riddled with pins that seemed to distort the very flesh, pulling it into a mask of perpetual agony. His gait was disjointed, his head often tilted at an unnatural angle. To anyone else, he was a bizarre, unsettling oddity in a crowd of oddities.

But to [Firstname], every single detail screamed a name that sent a jolt of icy terror straight to her core. The way the pins didn't quite obscure the precise, almost mathematical set of his jaw. The way his eyes, though obscured, held that particular, chilling emptiness that was unique to one person. The subtle, almost imperceptible hum of his aura, perfectly controlled, yet utterly distinct in its predatory stillness. And then, he made a sound—a slow, drawn-out 'hmmmmm' that was a guttural groan to others, but to her, it contained the undeniable rhythm of a voice that had once spoken promises and threats into her ear.

 

Illumi.

 

The name was a silent, desperate scream in her mind, a cold, hard truth that solidified all her fears, making her vision swim. He was here. Her worst nightmare, walking among them. Her blood ran cold, then roared in her ears. Her Nen, still sealed by the potion, felt like a throbbing phantom limb, a gaping wound. She was utterly defenseless against him. If he recognized her, if he saw through the disguise, she was finished. Her mission, Kurapika's safety, her own burgeoning hope for freedom—all would crumble into ash.

A primal terror urged her to bolt, to vanish into the crowd, but her training, years of rigid discipline, clamped down on the urge. She forced herself to breathe, slow and steady, every muscle in her body screaming for release, for flight. She kept her gaze from lingering, moving it past him as if he were just another oddity. Her external expression remained blank, 'Atinelle's' neutral mask firmly in place. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird desperate to escape its cage, yet unable to even tremble.

 

A wave of applicants began to clear from around Gittarackur's seat, heading towards a snack bar. The disguise was fully exposed now. He slowly turned his head, his pin-riddled eyes sweeping over the cabin.

They passed over Killua, paused for a fraction of a second on Leorio, then drifted to Gon. Then, they swept across Kurapika. For that horrifying, drawn-out moment, Illumi's head tilted infinitesimally, a subtle shift that sent a fresh spike of dread through [Firstname]. His gaze seemed to bore into Kurapika, a predatory assessment, a silent calculation. He's watching him. He's waiting. He's a threat to him. Her stomach twisted into knots.

Then, his unnerving gaze drifted. It passed over her, not stopping, not even a flicker of recognition. Just a vacant, unsettling stare that seemed to see nothing. Or so it seemed.

 

A tiny, almost imperceptible shudder ran through her, lost in the chaotic drumming of her own pulse. Had he seen? Had he known? Or was she simply another faceless applicant in his periphery? She couldn't tell. That was the terror of him. He gave nothing away unless he chose to. And the possibility that he did know, and was simply playing with her, was almost worse.

The hum of the airship's engines filled the silence that followed. The distant chatter of other applicants, the comfortable ease of Gon and his friends—it all seemed impossibly normal. But for [Firstname], the air had grown impossibly thin, stretched taut with a silent, terrifying game. She was now trapped in a confined space with the one person she had spent her life trying to escape, and the ones she was desperately trying to protect. The Hunter Exam had just become far more dangerous.

Chapter 19: 17 | 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐢𝐭

The Hunter Association’s airship descended with a grinding groan, blotting out the sun as its massive body lowered onto the rooftop of Trick Tower. The platform stretched endlessly in all directions, an unbroken slab of stone with no railings, no staircases — nothing but sky above and mist below.

 

Forty examinees stepped onto the rooftop, their relief at surviving the swamp swallowed by silence.

 

Beans, the Association’s secretary, raised his voice with amplified authority.

 

“Applicants! This is the Third Phase of the Hunter Exam. You must reach the bottom of Trick Tower within seventy-two hours. How you descend is up to you — but remember, only those who reach the bottom alive will pass.”

 

Confusion surged like wildfire.

 

“There’s no way down!”

“Climb the walls? That’s insane!”

 

Applicant #86, a mountain of muscle and arrogance, scoffed. “For experts like me, this is nothing.” Without hesitation, he strode to the edge and began scaling the vertical wall.

 

He made it only a few meters before the fog shrieked alive. Massive bat-like predators burst forth, claws tearing, wings blotting out the light. The man’s scream cracked into wet silence, his body vanishing into the frenzy.

The other applicants froze, horror rooting them in place.

 

Atinelle’s pulse pounded. Her breath fogged in the cold wind, sharp and metallic against her tongue. She felt the lesson carve itself into her mind as clearly as if the tower itself had whispered it: strength would not save them. Recklessness was death.

 

Her gaze dropped from the abyss back to the ground beneath her boots. Smooth, perfect stone. No ladders. No ropes. No visible paths. Which meant the real descent wasn’t outside the tower — it was hidden within.

 

“This isn’t about climbing,” she murmured flatly, her voice steady despite the tremor under her skin. “There’s a trick here.”

 

The others drew closer. Gon’s eyes, still wide from the brutal display, sparked again with stubborn determination. “Then we just have to find it!”

 

Killua crouched, pale hair glinting as his sharp eyes studied the tiles. “Hidden mechanisms. Pressure switches. It has to be.”

 

Kurapika nodded slightly, calm but alert. “Yes. The design implies a concealed entry system. This is a test of perception and judgment.”

 

Leorio adjusted his glasses with shaking hands. “Seventy-two hours, huh? Great. Plenty of time to die.”

 

Still, none of them moved away.

 

The examinees spread out across the rooftop, stomping, tapping, searching for seams in the floor. Most grew frustrated, their efforts revealing nothing but endless stone. Hours bled into one another, the sun beginning its descent.

 

Then Gon’s voice broke the monotony. “Over here!”

 

He pressed both palms against the stone near the tower’s center. A faint click resonated beneath his hands, and the outlines of five concealed doors shimmered faintly into view, arranged in a tight cluster.

 

“There are five!” he exclaimed, eyes shining.

 

Kurapika leaned closer, tracing the seams with careful precision. “Likely only one is safe. The rest… traps.”

 

“Once used, they seal,” Killua added, recalling earlier attempts by other candidates. “We tested it. No going back.”

 

The group huddled. Gon’s solution was deceptively simple. “We each pick one at random. That way, nobody blames anyone else if it’s a trap.”

 

Leorio grimaced but shrugged. “Fine. Luck’s as much a skill as anything.”

Kurapika inclined his head in agreement.

Killua smirked faintly. “Works for me.”

 

Their eyes turned to Atinelle.

 

She said nothing at first. Then she tilted her chin, subtle as a blade drawn under shadow. “There’s another.”

 

They followed her gaze. A sixth tile, separate from the cluster, its outline nearly invisible unless one knew exactly where to look.

 

“I’ll take that one,” she said evenly.

 

Gon’s grin returned. “Perfect! Then let’s decide together.”

 

They positioned themselves on their chosen tiles.

 

For a heartbeat, they stood united — a fragile knot of determination in the face of unknown darkness. Gon’s eyes were bright with hope. Killua’s smirk carried his usual edge. Leorio adjusted his glasses, visibly anxious but unwilling to back down. Kurapika’s gaze lingered on Atinelle’s, steady and unreadable, before offering her the smallest of nods.

 

“This is goodbye for now,” Gon said quietly.

 

“Let’s meet at the bottom.” Kurapika acknowledges.

 

“One… two… THREE!”

 

The floor gave way.

 

Atinelle plunged into darkness.

 

Her breath tore free as the floor flipped, gravity wrenching her downward. Her Nen, sealed tight beneath her ribs, clawed to be used, but the potion held it in chains. She landed hard in a narrow chamber, stone walls pressing in around her. Above, the tile sealed with a hiss.

 

For a moment, there was silence.

 

Then the air shifted. Oppressive. Familiar. Wrong.

 

Her stomach dropped.

 

Two silhouettes waited in the dim corridor ahead.

 

One leaned against the wall, shuffling cards with lazy elegance, his painted smile gleaming. Hisoka’s eyes glimmered with private amusement, as though her arrival had been his personal trick all along.

 

“Well, well,” he purred, his tone wrapping around her like a velvet noose, “Looks like fate’s finally showing its sense of humor. Of all doors, you picked ours.”

 

Her stomach twisted, but her face stayed still. She would not give him satisfaction.

 

Beside him, the other presence was heavier. Colder. Gittarackur — Applicant #301. The pins distorted his flesh into a grotesque mask, his posture inhumanly precise. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his very existence filled the chamber like water filling lungs.

 

Illumi.

 

Atinelle’s heartbeat hammered, but the disguise held. He didn’t know. He couldn’t.

 

“Strange, though,” Hisoka continued, his voice lilting as he pushed off the wall. Each step was deliberate, echoing like a countdown. “The way you walk, the way you hold yourself… not very rookie-like, is it?”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’m just not as stupid as the others.”

 

Hisoka’s grin widened, delighted by the bite in her voice. “Oh, I do love it when you bare your little fangs.” He leaned close, close enough that she could smell blood on him, and whispered, “Careful, or someone might notice how sharp they are.”

 

A shiver crawled up her spine, but she met his gaze with ice. “Better sharp than dull. At least I’ll cut back when someone tries me.”

 

Hisoka chuckled, low and pleased, flicking a card between his fingers as though imagining how it might look buried in her throat.

 

Gittarackur shifted slightly, his voice grating through the pins, flat and inhuman. “Keep your energy for the trial. Wasted words won’t help you survive.”

 

Hisoka turned toward him, still smiling. “Mmm, but sometimes wasted words are the most entertaining.” His gaze snapped back to her. “Don’t you agree… little bunny?”

 

Her jaw clenched. “Call me that again, and you’ll see how quickly rabbits bite.”

 

Hisoka’s laughter cracked against the walls like breaking glass. Illumi said nothing, his silence somehow sharper than any blade.

 

Atinelle forced herself not to look away. She had stepped into a cage with two demons, and survival meant wearing her mask until it suffocated her.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Possessive Men