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Chapter 1: Courting Death

Hisoka stepped out, clutching Kortopi’s severed head, only to lock eyes with Nobunaga, who had just turned to glance back. Hisoka licked the blood from his lips—Kortopi’s blood—and offered a smile that could almost pass for polite. With a casual flick, he hurled his comrade’s head straight at him.

The impact was brutal. Whether it was the shock of Kortopi’s death or the flying head itself that stunned Nobunaga more, it didn’t matter—he doubled over, his abdomen caving in as he was flung several meters backward. Before Nobunaga could recover, Hisoka delivered a fatal blow to his head.

By the time Machi broke free from the grip of “Bungee Gum,” the scene was desolate. Nobunaga’s lifeless body swung like a pendulum, ultimately reduced to a tattered ragdoll, mirroring his own Nen ability in its pathetic end.

Hisoka intended for every member of the Phantom Troupe to savor the bitter taste of death.

Machi felt a scorching rage burning in her gut, coupled with a fear she’d never known before.

“Is it over?” Illumi accepted the glass Hisoka handed him, his gaze lingering on the window. Outside, two drunks traded sloppy punches, their misplaced fists resembling clumsy clowns—or marionettes controlled by invisible strings, much like those ensnared in “Bungee Gum.”

“Why didn’t you come watch me, Illu~?”

“No money.”

“Oh—”

Illumi tilted his head, catching Hisoka’s half-lit face under the bar’s dim, yellowish glow. Not a single scratch marred it. Lower still, his Adam’s apple, collarbone, and partially exposed chest gleamed almost reflectively smooth. Illumi’s eyes paused for a split second on the torn shirt.

Hisoka’s stare never left Illumi. From the moment he entered, his gaze had ensnared him like a predator’s trap, aiming to suffocate him, to drown him unknowingly in a carefully laid swamp. He wanted Illumi to perish in the most elegant pose, forever etched as that flawless black-haired silhouette in his mind and eyes.

He knew someone as sharp as Illumi had already sensed the truth hidden beneath his “Texture Surprise.” Just as Hisoka had zeroed in on him the instant he stepped into this unfamiliar bar. He was pleased that clever Illumi hadn’t uttered a word about it.

Hisoka knew it was likely wishful thinking—Illumi probably just couldn’t be bothered to ask, always prioritizing results over processes. Even so, Hisoka’s mind overflowed with the urge to claim this understanding Illumi right here, right now: to make him his possession, a prey awaiting judgment, never to appear before others again. This desire threatened to burst him open, fiercer than the thrill of spotting an unripe fruit.

“Hisoka, reel in your killing intent.” Illumi stared at his glass, the ice clinking crisply as it melted, turning the amber liquid clearer. Condensation trickled down the sides, tinted blood-red by the light. Sensing no change, Illumi tapped the table. “Ah, good thing Chrollo’s still alive. Losing a generous client like that would be a headache.”

“Hmm… You’d better cherish him then,” Hisoka said, forcing himself to ignore the irritation sparked by “good thing.” “Because I’ll kill him eventually.”

Illumi fixed Hisoka with a serious gaze, his pitch-black eyes reflecting the neon kaleidoscope outside while devouring the bar’s drowsy shadows.

Hisoka could almost see the precise calculations ticking in those eyes, weighing two clients against each other. He wasn’t impatient; instead, he savored the attention. Illumi, master of Manipulation, could make Hisoka feel like the sole focus of his world with just that intense stare. Hisoka yearned to claim those glossy black eyes as his own personal mirror.

“If it’s you, Hisoka, I suppose there’s no helping it.” As expected, Illumi’s decision never disappointed. “But you’ll compensate me for the loss.”

“Sure, how about you do one more job for me, Illu?” Hisoka twirled a strand of Illumi’s long hair, blowing softly on the exposed earlobe.

“Extra charge.” Illumi kept his head tilted toward Hisoka, ignoring the playful fingers.

“Of course. No discount for me?”

Hisoka let the hair coil and slip through his fingers, the occasional brush against skin sending jolts up his nerves, flowing into his heart—still thrumming from the recent Nen surge—fueling it further. Perhaps a bit too much.

“I can’t promise that. Work’s been piling up lately. What’s the job?”

“Intelligence gathering. I want the locations of all the Spiders.”

Illumi frowned subtly. Though his emotions rarely surfaced, Hisoka always caught the tiniest ripples—like the barest twitch of an eyebrow just now.

Hisoka had honed his skill at spotting life on Illumi’s face to perfection.

“Hey, Illu, relax. It won’t take much time. You know, just keep an eye out during your jobs. Spot one, let me know. How’s that?”

“You’re bound to travel the world for work anyway. A casual glance here and there—no trouble, right?”

This time, Illumi truly couldn’t fathom Hisoka. He could tell the duel with Chrollo hadn’t gone as planned, even sensing the heavy blow it had dealt him from their first meeting today. Like the unrepaired clothes, or Hisoka’s killing intent boiling over like scalding water, drawing wary glances from capable patrons ready to strike.

As Hisoka drew closer, the steaming aura enveloped Illumi with searing heat, making him wonder if the intent aimed at Chrollo had shifted to him. Yet, surprisingly, it lacked sharpness—like splattering oil from a fryer, but more akin to an overheated sauna.

Clearly, Hisoka teetered on the edge of collapse. Hunting the entire Troupe? It struck Illumi as madness. Taking them all at once? Even madder than before.

If he couldn’t figure it out, he’d stop trying. He’d just watch for lone Spiders, though that seemed impossible. Illumi turned and sipped the rum Hisoka had brought, the ice reduced to thin shards. The cool sweetness slid down his throat, as chilling as Hisoka’s lingering fingertip by his ear.

“Not troublesome at all. Let’s say one million jenny per person.”

“Whatever you say, Illu.”

As long as you’re thinking of me during every mission.

Hisoka clinked his glass against Illumi’s and downed his tequila in one go. Its crisp bite swept through his mouth, piercing his lungs and adding fuel to his wildly pounding heart.

“I’m off. Work tonight.” Illumi swirled his glass, merging the last ice remnants with the alcohol. He took a small sip, set the rest down, and rose. “Hisoka…”

His voice cut off as he watched Hisoka rotate the glass, lick the spot his lips had touched, then drink the remaining rum from there, savoring every drop on the rim. Throughout, Hisoka’s eyes narrowed on Illumi, even swallowing audibly.

Compared to the bitter clarity of tequila lingering in his saliva, the rum’s sweetness triumphed. It reminded Hisoka of the hunt’s climax: prey bloodied, exuding a sweet, metallic tang that soothed his trembling excitement and warmed his chilled fingertips.

Hisoka had once mocked Illumi—a killer— for preferring sweet golden rum. When he’d slyly swapped it for tequila, Illumi accepted without a flicker, leaving Hisoka smug about his influence.

But now, Hisoka conceded: rum was far more enticing.

“Hisoka, I’ll contact you with info.” Unfazed by the gesture, Illumi turned and left the bar, the wind chimes tinkling behind him.

He’d long grown accustomed to Hisoka’s quirks. He knew Transmuters well enough, especially one reeling from some unknown setback. He recalled Killua’s outburst after Gon got hurt—strong enough to remove his own needle. Transmuters were unpredictable, boundless in potential. Illumi just hoped Hisoka would snap back after sobering up; he didn’t want to lose a rare partner and conversationalist.

Once Illumi vanished from sight, Hisoka slipped out after him. The summer night breeze cooled his face, carrying away the heat lingering in his chest from his lips. It had been a while since he’d contacted Illumi, focused on his fight with Chrollo. Now, he didn’t even know his target’s identity.

Illumi hadn’t dropped “Zetsu” all evening, meaning his assassination mark was a Nen user. Hisoka figured it lay within the five blocks between the bar and the Heaven’s Arena.

Come to think of it, with four Troupe members drawn to the Arena by him, anyone with power wouldn’t miss the chance to strike. In this chaos, the mafia couldn’t stay quiet. The awakening beasts were eager to sharpen their claws—the new Ten Dons’ beasts were mobilizing. And as the Zoldycks’ assassin for the old Ten Dons… Hisoka quickened his pace.

Illumi’s figure flickered in and out like a breath, making Hisoka wonder if exhaustion bred hallucinations.

He halted at the street where Illumi vanished, spotting a pitch-black alley reeking of familiarity. The setting raised his guard; passersby ignored him entirely, even his increasingly erratic steps due to depleted Nen.

The moment Hisoka entered the alley, he knew he was done.

Forced into “Zetsu,” his face reverted to a charred skull, his severed limbs unable to support normal movement. Yet it didn’t halt his advance—because seconds later, he was teleported to a dank, dim room, heavy chains binding him so tightly he couldn’t struggle.

Even against Chrollo, Hisoka hadn’t been this helpless. Especially upon spotting the huddled black-haired figure in the corner, rage and terror surged within him. He’d rather die again at Chrollo’s hands.

Shadows murmured around him, but Hisoka tuned them out. Illumi’s form looked lifeless. He strained to check, refusing to believe a killer would go like this.

But if it was true, Hisoka vowed every soul here would pay—if he could manage it.

Reality was cruel.

The battle with Chrollo had drained most of his Nen and shattered his once-unshakable confidence. Now, the person who’d stood by him longest lay in limbo, while he clung to life, groveling at enemies’ feet.

“Didn’t see this coming, huh? That’s what you get for allying with the Phantom Troupe!”

Hisoka’s chin was yanked up toward a face shrouded in shadow, their words forced into his ears. He’d never missed Illumi’s monotone so much—even a simple “ah” would be music.

Without Nen to staunch it, the chin wound oozed blood anew. His throat, hastily stitched by Machi, burned like fire. Still, he endured the indistinct speaker.

“Even a Zoldyck—what of it? Against overwhelming numbers, skill means nothing.”

“Don’t think we’re like those losers before. Four-on-one, and they lost to some petty thief. Pathetic.”

The grip on his chin tightened until a “crack” echoed, fracturing his jaw. Hisoka’s unspoken questions remained trapped; he couldn’t even turn for one last look at Illumi.

“Haven’t heard of the Zoldycks having a mutt like this. These wounds aren’t from a normal scrap.”

“I saw today—he fought their leader in the Arena. Bet that arrogant punk thinks his member’s dead.”

“Thanks to the bandit boss, we don’t have to lift a finger. Leave him here, and he’s done.”

“Hey, no. Remember the orders? Associates—kill without mercy. We take both heads.”

Unable to speak, Hisoka forced guttural sounds from his throat, mustering strength to halt them from desecrating Illumi. All it earned was rattling chains and malicious laughter.

Hisoka watched three shadows hoist Illumi’s body like trash and dump it before him.

Heh, his earlier wish granted so soon. Could he look away now?

Illumi’s dark cat-like eyes stared blankly at Hisoka, still mirroring his face as in life. But now, Hisoka was grotesque: lower face mangled, exposed bone shards dotting the unfocused black pupils with pale gleams, flickering as if alive. It let Hisoka delude himself in his final moments, bidding farewell. He even imagined a hint of warmth in Illumi’s eye corner.

Hisoka twisted a grin uglier than a demon’s, avoiding the rest of the body. He indulged in etching this heart-engraved face deeper, vowing to find him first in death—even as bones.

They’d all end up in hell anyway.

“Seen enough? Heh… You two weren’t lovers, were you?”

As the words fell, Hisoka dodged the descending blade in a flash of steel.