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To contemplate that countenance through the car window was like witnessing the collapse of all the pride that upheld his soul. Those fingers, once delicate, slender, and graceful—whose skill had touched his skin with such reverence—were now stained with blood, the blood of his own people. Kurapika felt the crushing weight of shame, a searing wound that did not confine itself to his body but spilled over into an uncontrollable storm within his soul. Chrollo, he assumed, must have known from the start. He must have identified him as a Kurta and, with that knowledge, orchestrated a cruel game, manipulating him like a puppet while feigning ignorance of the truth.
That voice, as soft as the murmur of a stream at dawn, which once whispered praises in his ear when the first rays of sunlight caressed his skin, had now become an unbearable memory. The gentle touches, which had awakened in him a cocoon of affection and care previously unknown, were now imbued with a dark significance. He had loved that man, loved him with an intensity that preceded the discovery of hatred, and perhaps it was for this reason that the silence between them, seated in the back seat, was so piercing. No words were necessary; the exchanged glances carried a fiery passion and a visceral hatred so profound it hurt.
In his darkest reveries, Kurapika wished to tear open Chrollo’s ribcage, consume everything that was his—even his heart—and then wrap himself in that lifeless body until death itself claimed him. He knew, in some hidden corner of his mind, that if this were his desire, Chrollo would not resist. There would be no defense, no plea. Both were fully aware of the weight of that oppressive emotion. To Lucilfer, Kurapika was an immaculate angel, untouchable in essence, even though his body was taken time and time again. To the man, the blonde’s soul remained pure, indifferent to how his sins seemed to overflow and be absorbed by that entanglement of bodies.
Yet, at Kurapika’s core, there was no forgiveness—there never would be. But even so, the passion and love still lingered, like embers burning beneath the ashes of hatred. It was clear that the hunter was utterly broken.