Chapter Text
The smell of wet earth slid into his nostrils like a lukewarm breeze with nowhere to go. That scent many people described as nostalgic, comforting, and evocative. The smell of rain hitting hot soil, of childhood in the countryside, of life.
But to him, it meant nothing.
No love, no disgust. No form, no intent.
Neutral. Like most things in his life.
But when he slid open the mortuary drawer and the body came out with a dry screech of steel and rubber, the air shifted. He was invaded by a precise, cruel, almost sacred fragrance: formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, a metallic whisper of dried blood, and the sweet, dense echo of suspended decomposition.
That smell didn’t make him nauseous. It didn’t repel him. On the contrary, it surrounded him like an embrace, touched his bones with invisible fingers. And deep in his chest, where others sheltered emotion, he felt something close to peace.
He couldn’t name it. It wasn’t happiness. But it was a sense of belonging.
He felt the latex snap snugly around his fingers as he slipped on his gloves.
He pulled the metal handle and slid the body out again with a soft screech. It was draped in a white sheet, slightly stuck in places by the moisture of what had once been blood.
He read the tag tied around the left toe.
Kite.
Ah. Yes. That one.
He’d seen it on the news.
A rather scandalous murder, full of adjectives: brutal, inhuman, grotesque.
Apparently, the victim had been attacked with something sharp, again and again, as if someone had lost patience halfway between carving meat and sculpting stone. The legs still bore the results: gashes, poorly closed, the flesh unraveled like fabric coming apart.
Illumi studied the body for a moment, then pulled it closer to begin his inspection.
And then he noticed the obvious.
There was no head.
Ah. Of course.
Now that he thought about it, the report did mention something.
“Cranium not recovered.”
But seeing it now, seeing the empty space where the head should have been… It annoyed him.
This body had been ruined long before it arrived. Butchered. Rushed. Sloppy. And because of it, he wouldn’t be able to do what he did best. No reconstruction. No detail work. No challenge.
Nothing to show for his precision.
It wasn’t just a corpse. It was a wasted canvas.
He stared at the exposed neck, lips flattening in quiet disapproval. So much of his time would go into correcting someone else’s mess, only to end in a closed casket.
Pointless.
And worse: aesthetically insulting.
He opened the tool cart and chose the firmest scalpel. Most of the others had dulled; Machi, the new assistant, had gone through most of them during her previous shift.
Before beginning, he inspected the body again with calm precision.
The chest had been opened and poorly stitched shut, like a box someone tried to close in a hurry without enough tape. The autopsy lines weren’t clean; they looked like they were drawn by a trembling hand, or by someone who simply didn’t care.
There was a diagonal cut across the abdomen. Inexplicable. Completely unnecessary.
He frowned slightly at the inefficiency.
The forensic team had done a terrible job.
Clumsy. Unprecise. Like they’d been practicing on a mannequin and then decided to improvise.
Completely inefficient.
He sighed.
More work for me.
And on the very day he’d hoped to have lunch with the family at a decent hour.
He pulled the sheet back a bit more and examined the left arm. No need to reattach it, the bone was barely connected, and the tissue looked more torn than cut.
It was shredded.
But considering this was going to be a closed-casket funeral, which was only logical, given the state of the body, there was no point wasting time.
What you don’t see, you don’t fix.
He made a mental note of it while preparing the tubing for the drainage.
Normally, the carotid artery would be the point of entry, but with no head, he’d have to work through the chest. An annoying detour, but manageable.
The blood, or what remained of it, wouldn’t come easily. Especially after the surgical disaster the forensic team had left behind.
But in the end, everything will eventually come out. Through one vein or another. It always did.
And if all went well, he might still have time to get lunch without having to reheat it.
He was just about to insert the cannula into the thoracic cavity when he heard the soft creak of the door opening.
A small silhouette appeared at the doorway, carrying something unexpected: a white plate with a slightly flattened sandwich and a few colorful vegetables that looked like they’d been picked without much thought.
Killua.
Illumi blinked once.
His posture, however, straightened imperceptibly, like his spine knew something was off.
Killua walked in with that usual rehearsed nonchalance, the kind that tried hard to look effortless. But his eyes were always scanning. Curious. Sharp. He stopped at a careful distance from the corpse and placed the plate on a metal tray nearby.
Illumi, distracted for just a second, slipped the needle incorrectly. The built-up pressure released in a small explosion, splattering his coat, his cheek, and Killua’s outstretched arm.
The boy barely blinked. He looked at the blood on his sleeve, unfazed, then back at Illumi.
“I brought you lunch ”, he said.
Illumi studied the sandwich. The bread was slightly sunken in the middle, the lettuce half-hanging from one edge. And the ham… that pale, soft, nearly translucent kind. The kind that stuck to the roof of your mouth more than it tasted of anything.
Clearly, Killua had made it.
And still, Illumi peeled off one glove with practiced precision and reached for the sandwich with bare fingers. Then, he took a bite.
The flavor was warm. Room-temperature. It had that clingy texture, almost like cold muscle tissue.
It reminded him, involuntarily, of the subcutaneous layer he’d just peeled back from the corpse’s neck.
Killua watched him chew, his face twisted in genuine disgust.
“I’ve never understood how you can eat while doing this ”, he muttered, frowning.
Illumi inserted his gloved hand into the open side of the corpse’s neck to stanch a persistent trickle. The blood, built up internally, burst out with a thick, wet squelch, like a water balloon filled with rot. The ham in his mouth made a similar noise: soft, sticky, crushed between his teeth with the muffled crunch of under-toasted bread. The sounds blended. Mouth and hand working in sync. Fluid and flesh. Meat and mayonnaise.
The air filled with that dense, metallic stench, old rust tangled with the sour hint of poorly stored meat. It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t shocking. Just present. Clinging to the back of the throat, that now blended with the warm taste of the sandwich.
Illumi swallowed without emotion.
“If you worked with me more often, you’d probably get used to it too”.
“I don’t want to learn that” , Killua muttered, arms crossed.
His feet barely touched the floor, but his posture stayed upright, jaw set. Not afraid, just uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable because of the smell, the humid heat of the room, but not death itself.
Illumi glanced at him sideways.
Killua had that particular way of looking at bodies: without horror, without compassion. Like someone studying a cut on someone else’s skin. Not out of care, but curiosity.
He’d read about that. Children dissecting insects just to see what was inside. Teenagers watching gore like documentaries. A primal need.
That word… morbid.
The instinct to look at what shouldn’t be seen.
And yes. Killua had it.
Just like assassins, surgeons, scientists or any other normal person really.
Not inherently bad.
Just inconvenient if left untrained.
“What do you want?” he asked, wiping the blood from his cheek with his sleeve. “You don’t usually come down here to watch me work”.
He knew the sandwich was bait. Emotional currency.
Killua wanted something.
And even though it was deeply inconvenient for him at times, Illumi knew, without knowing why, that he couldn’t say no. Not to him.
Killua looked down, visibly unsure. Then raised his eyes and fixed them on the body.
“I came to ask you a favor”, he said quietly. “There’s a body coming in. He was important… to a very close friend of mine”.
The phrase slid through the room like a gust of misplaced air.
Friend?
Close?
The words struck him as foreign. And he didn’t like that Killua used them at all.
Those were words reserved for family, weren’t they?
Closeness, respect, even that imprecise concept people called love, they only made sense within the boundaries of blood. Feelings granted by birthright. Not to strangers. Not to this so-called friend .
Wasn’t that how the world worked? Then why was his little brother talking like that about someone else?
Killua had never called him close.
He had never come down just to see him, nor ever prepared food for him without some ulterior motive.
And yet, here he was. With a plate and a pleading voice.
Not for him.
For someone else.
For that friend.
Illumi didn’t know how to describe what he felt. But he knew it was something.
Not pain.
Not anger.
Just… disruption.
A note out of place in a melody played a thousand times.
Why doesn’t he see me as someone important? Why does he come down here only for a stranger’s corpse, and never for his living brother?
What do I have to do to make Killua see that closeness should belong to me?
“I want you to do everything you can to fix him”, Killua insisted. “At least… so my friend can have some peace”.
Illumi blinked.
“What’s the name?”
“Kite”.
There was a pause. Illumi blinked again, slowly pulling his hand from the body and pointing at it.
“Ah! You’re looking at him”.
Killua frowned. He stepped closer, tilting his head from side to side, almost as if trying to deny his brother’s words.
And then he recognized him. Or rather, what was left.
His expression collapsed instantly. His eyes widened as if unable to process what they saw.
The color drained from his face. The moisture in his eyes wasn’t grief—it was shock, trembling on his lashes, unsure of whether to fall.
His body, always naturally rigid, began to crumble. His knees bent. His hands landed on them like he suddenly weighed too much. His breath stuttered, ragged and uneven, stuck halfway in his throat, like his body couldn’t decide if it should cry or hold it in.
And still, not a single sound.
Just his head lowering, eyes locked on the corpse. Frozen.
Illumi watched without understanding.
It was just another corpse, one of many lined up, waiting to be embalmed. And yet, Killua looked at it as if he were watching an entire universe collapse.
Illumi took another bite.
Mayonnaise and blood.
There were many things he didn’t understand.
“As you can see”, he said, reverting to his usual clinical tone, “There’s not much to salvage. No head. Left arm’s ruined. Wouldn’t make sense to put in extra work. Waste of time”.
Killua didn’t respond. He just stood there, broken, staring at Kite like he was still waiting for him to breathe. Illumi shrugged and sighed, continuing his task and chewing at the same time. Both duties equally insignificant.
Then something clanged against the floor—metal against tile.
Illumi turned.
Killua had dropped the tray. His face was red, tight with fury. His eyes, burning.
“HOW CAN YOU BE SO INSENSITIVE?!” Killua screamed, trembling
“This isn’t normal! YOU aren’t normal! You’re insane! Gon would never…”
Gon.
So that was the name.
Illumi tilted his head slightly.
“Gon is the friend you were talking about? “ he asked, like confirming an address.
“Why can’t you just be a normal brother?!” Killua shouted, voice cracking. “Why can’t you feel something?! Anything?!”
Illumi stared at him.
Not hurt.
Just… blank.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel.
But his mind, precise, orderly, took note.
Gon.
Key name.
Emotional influence over Killua: high.
An idea began to form, thin as surgical thread.
If Killua could cry for someone not bound by blood… Then, attachment could stretch beyond logic.
And if Gon could cause that reaction in Killua… what else could he cause?
Illumi didn’t understand it yet. But he felt it. If he could replicate what Killua valued…
He could keep his attention.
He could manipulate him. Control him.
And that… was useful.
Very useful.
He finished the sandwich in two bites, swallowed without expression, wiped his fingers with a blood-stained cloth, and looked back at Killua, now trembling, back turned, chest rising and falling in shallow waves.
"Normal brother."
What did that even mean?
Illumi didn’t know.
But he could find out.
He had practice observing the dead. Now he just needed to learn how to observe the living.
And for the first time in years, something like a real purpose settled into his mind.
Not out of mercy.
Not out of understanding.
But because Killua, the only true constant in his world, was beginning to look elsewhere.
And that, simply put, was not an option.
It was almost absurd to see him there. Him . Illumi Zoldyck. At a social event. And not just any event: one overflowing with unnecessary rituals, performative tears, and people hugging as if that could bring the dead back. A funeral. Of all possible places, that one.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had attended one. Maybe back when he still believed smiles were supposed to make facial muscles grow.
His mother had been surprised when he offered to accompany Killua to the funeral of his friend’s friend . An unnecessarily long and sentimental emotional chain. But she didn’t oppose. She, like the rest of the family —except for Killua and Alluka, who still clung to that irritating tendency for sentimentalism— considered other people’s pain even more foreign than the concept of vacation.
Killua, of course, had protested with his usual mix of childish drama and crude vocabulary. He protested with all the emotional grace of a wet cat. Said something about not wanting to be escorted by his “psychopath brother,” but in the Zoldyck household, what the father said, happened. So the silver-haired boy had no choice but to walk beside someone who resembled less a brother and more a crematorium manager.
Illumi didn’t mind. Well... maybe a little. He was unsettled by the chaotic way people expressed grief in that place. But he also considered it an excellent opportunity to begin taking mental notes on how people behaved around sadness. And more importantly,
How this… Gon would react.
That one.
Gon.
The child at the center of it all. The epicenter of Killua’s emotional disorder. The alleged friend. The strange bond that seemed to defy logic. He wanted to know everything about him.
How did he treat him? What did he say? Why did Killua—his brother, his blood—seem to lean so completely toward that boy?
What did Gon have that he didn’t? What did Illumi have to do to be like Gon? What formula, what mechanism, what behavior did he need to replicate to have Killua under his control the way Gon apparently did?
The cemetery (which, by the way, belonged to the Zoldyck family) was decorated with what the market calls “premium mourning” : black flowers (dyed? dead?), dramatic ribbons hanging from every chair like velvet serpents, incense thick enough to cover the smell of the body… and of poorly managed emotions.
People cried with such committed energy that it looked like an open casting call for a Greek tragedy. Some sobbed with vibrato. Others fainted at the exact right moment, as if they had rehearsed for days in front of a mirror.
Ridiculous.
And then he saw him.
The brat.
Gon.
And he was... pleasantly disappointed.
He was barely a child. A congested dwarf, no taller than Killua. Puffy eyes, red cheeks, and snot running down his face with the force of gravity.
A tomato.
But not a fresh, juicy one. Not shiny and round. No. Gon was a shriveled tomato. A forgotten one in the fridge drawer. One with black spots and the texture of wet paper. One that cries uncontrollably and doesn’t understand it’s too ripe to be useful.
And yet… Killua ran to him.
As if crying tasted like comfort.
He opened his arms and hugged him without hesitation. Let him use his shirt as a tissue. Allowed him to cling to him with sadness-slicked fingers.
Illumi observed them. Without moving. But his mind… was working.
Observation one: Killua responds positively to physical contact loaded with vulnerability.
Observation two: Crying, although aesthetically unpleasant, generates emotional connections.
Observation three: Gon, despite his evident uselessness, triggers immediate empathic responses in Killua.
Curious.
Disgusting, but curious.
A specimen. That’s what Gon was. A subject for study. A biological anomaly with inexplicable influence.
It wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. Illumi didn’t feel jealousy, right? It was just... strategy.
He had to understand how Gon worked. He had to dissect his effect. Not with a scalpel, though he wasn’t ruling that out entirely, but with observation. With imitation. With precision.
And so, standing among overacted funeral wreaths and a sea of emotions that didn’t include him, Illumi made himself a silent promise:
Understand Gon.
Replace Gon.
And ensure Killua never looked anywhere else again.
Maybe he’d been too absorbed in his observations. Maybe he’d spent too much time trying, unsuccessfully, to replicate a genuine expression of pain on his face. Maybe his excessive focus on the study of tears had temporarily displaced a basic cognitive function.
Because, suddenly, the coffin lid opened.
And as far as he knew, that didn’t usually happen at funerals.
Or… did it?
Had he missed a cultural tradition? A final phase of the ritual? The deceased making a farewell encore?
Illumi blinked once.
How would he do it if he had no head?
The tomato child ran.
Ran as if, instead of a mutilated corpse, a birthday present awaited him.
His legs barely touched the ground, his arms flailed with childish awkwardness, and his face... Illumi observed it with surgical attention. The nose was still wet, the eyes now sparkled—not with tears, but with absolute, unbreakable, absurd hope.
He lunged at the edge of the coffin like it was a swimming pool.
“Kite!” he screamed, voice full of light, “You came back! I knew it! You promised! I waited for you, I knew you'd return, you always keep your word!”
His hands clung to the open wood with a trembling force. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth parted into a smile that defied the logic of the moment. He laughed. His misplaced childish joy echoed through the funeral hall.
Illumi watched in silence. Frozen.
Was it possible for the dead to return?
Illumi genuinely didn’t know. He blinked again.
The child kept shouting with joy at the coffin like he’d just opened a birthday gift, not a sarcophagus.
And then, the impossible happened.
The corpse… moved.
More precisely, it sat up.
In one motion, with the grace of a rusty spring and the subtlety of a nightmare. The figure inside the coffin rose with a dry creak of wood, and a cloud of lily petals ( where had those come from? ) floated briefly into the air.
What?
“TADAAA!” exclaimed a high-pitched, cheerful male voice, full of enthusiasm bordering on criminal.
Illumi blinked. Once. Twice. His face tightened slightly, confused.
That was not the body he embalmed.
This corpse wore clown makeup, glitter smeared across its face, and its hair was slicked upward in the unmistakable shape of a mango sucked from the tip. He wore a sparkling cape covered in sequins and held a plastic flower between his teeth.
Observation four: Don’t let the family choose the corpse’s outfit next time. No one deserves to be dressed and painted like this in their final moments.
The room fell into absolute silence.
A blond guy in the third row was filming. Phone vertically. Zooming in, then turning the camera on himself to comment:
“This is god-tier content.”
Gon, for his part, didn’t seem offended. Or even scared.
He simply… stood still.
“Kite?” he asked in a small voice.
“Kite?” the man in the coffin repeated, now standing atop it like a tightrope walker with unresolved mental issues. “No, no, no! I’m Hisoka the magician!”
Then, with an unnecessarily dramatic and utterly uncalled-for bow, he leaned toward Gon:
“But if you’d like… I can pretend to be Kite. Observe!”
Without warning, he brought both hands to his head and, in one grotesquely fluid, theatrical motion, lifted it off.
Yes. He removed it.
Illumi blinked.
Gon’s eyes were wide open, fixed on the head now held in the hands of that absurd man. Pupils dilated. Jaw slack. Arms extended slightly, as if still expecting something to fill them.
Sudden rigidity. Loss of focus. Shallow breathing. Suspended motion.
Ah, a breakdown, yes. But internal.
Not performative. Not loud. Not useful. Just… real.
Observation five: The Subject presents signs of acute emotional shock. Trigger: decapitation. Possible cognitive dissociation.
And then the whole room collapsed into chaos.
A woman screamed. Another vomited directly into her handbag. A pale child stumbled backward and landed on the portrait of the deceased. At the back, someone began praying aloud, off-key and off-beat, while another person shouted “Call an exorcist!” through gasps. The priest dropped his rosary, took two steps back, and covered his mouth with his robes as if witnessing the second coming of the Antichrist.
“Mmm… you're not the corpse,” Illumi said, glancing at the photo on the floor, then back at the man.
“Oh yeah? And what gave me away?”
He popped his head back onto his neck like someone adjusting a top hat and took two slow steps toward Illumi.
His gait was strange. Slow. Floating. With a slithering rhythm, almost liquid, like his joints weren’t fully committed to walking like a normal human.
Illumi didn’t blink.
The subject approached like a cat.
But not a regular cat. Not a healthy one. One of those street cats that walk crooked, with a dislocated paw, an arched back at an awkward angle, and half-lidded eyes.
He was clearly trying to communicate something.
But Illumi couldn’t decipher the intent. Aggression? A distraction strategy? Motor dysfunction?
“You’re alive”.
“Only for you, darling”.
Darling?
“They won’t be able to bury you if you’re not properly embalmed. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to drain you now”.
The room fell into stunned silence.
A wave of horror swept through the crowd. A woman began crying again. Killua furrowed his brow even harder.
Hisoka, however, stood perfectly still.
And then… he laughed.
He laughed with a joy that seemed organic and perverse, like he had just received the greatest proposal of his life.
“Drain me?” he echoed, savoring the word. “Mmm… what a delicious phrase. I love it. But tell me…”
Then, the subject stopped a step away. Lowered his voice. Spoke slowly, each word dragging like warm mist in the air.
“…Are you going to do it… with your mouth?”
Illumi opened his eyes slightly.
No corpse had ever sounded so thrilled to be drained. Much less, one that suggested using a mouth.
“Actually…” he began, calmly, “I planned to tie you down first. Then I’d open you with my fingers. Slowly. But…”
He tilted his head, thoughtful.
“…I’ve never tried using my mouth. If that’s what you prefer, I suppose I could try. I don’t think it would interfere with the procedure. After I open you, I could also insert…”
“ILLUMI!” Killua screamed from the back, horrified.
Why was he yelling?
Had he said something wrong?
“I might need to hold you by the legs if you resist. Would you prefer I use tools instead of direct contact?”
The subject froze.
His smile faltered for just a second. His face looked stunned, almost surprised. His pupils dilated sharply. And then… a new smile formed. Slower. More dangerous. More personal.
His breathing became uneven, like he needed a moment to process what he’d just heard.
“Oh…” he exhaled, voice low and rough. “Do you even know what you're doing to me?”
His tone was soft. Intimate. Like he was whispering in someone’s ear in a dark room, not standing in the middle of a traumatized funeral audience.
“ Tying me up… ” he repeated, savoring every syllable. “ Opening me with your fingers…? Slowly…”
He closed his eyes as if picturing the scene with unholy delight. Then looked back at Illumi.
“And your mouth, if necessary… how thoughtful of you. I’m touched , ” he added, placing a hand on his chest like he’d just received a love confession.
Illumi observed him, expression unchanged.
Observation six : Subject displays intense emotional response to clinical anatomical language.
Observation seven: Shows signs of euphoria. Possible neurological issue.
The man stepped closer. Too close.
“Holding me by the legs…” he murmured, with a giggle barely contained. “Seems fair. I tend to squirm when I get excited.”
What was wrong with this person?
“And after that?” he leaned in. “Will you fill me up with your fluids... or leave me completely dry?”
Illumi tilted his head slightly. He didn’t understand the tone. Or the looks. Or the growing wave of discomfort rippling through the room.
“It depends on the state of your veins” he answered, perfectly calmly. “If you’re healthy, I should be able to fill you completely in under an hour. With the right tools”
Hisoka shivered. Visibly.
“ILLUMI, PLEASE JUST SHUT UP!” Killua screamed again, now in pure panic.
“What did I say?” Illumi asked, expression flat.
Hisoka burst into laughter, lifting his arms like he had just won the lottery.
“This is the best first date I’ve ever had!” he shouted, delighted. “And I came without flowers… or protection!”
Illumi merely turned to look at him again, pensive.
Observation eight : Subject desires to be embalmed.
Observation nine: Subject must be contained. Or studied. Possibly both.
“Would you like to do it now or after the burial?” Illumi asked, sincerely.
Once again, the subject fell silent. Frozen for a few moments, as if trying to process what he’d just heard.
It was almost strange to see him so quiet…
“Ohhh… you want to do it now?” he finally whispered, with a mix of awe and restrained ecstasy.
Illumi frowned for the first time.
Something… wasn’t going according to plan.