Chapter Text
The door chimed as it opened.
Illumi’s gaze flitted to the man in the doorway and back to the customer in front of him. The former was unfamiliar; he had a pointed, foxlike face, with heavy-lidded eyes that made him want to reach for the knife in his boot—but there was no need for that just yet. Plenty of unscrupulous figures frequented his shop, and he wouldn’t make any money if he killed them on sight. Still, the man was unnerving, and it took a lot to make Illumi Zoldyck feel unnerved.
“Just a minute,” called Illumi. He finished screwing the ball onto the horseshoe-shaped barbell and peeled off his latex gloves. “How does that feel?”
The customer wrinkled her nose. “Like the world’s sharpest booger. How d’ya think it feels?”
Assuming the woman’s comment to be rhetorical, Illumi silently tossed his gloves into the bin. He snatched a sheet of aftercare instructions from a pile on the front counter, using the opportunity to steal another glance at his visitor. The man was tall, even taller than him, with bright red hair and an equally bright jacket made of violet pleather. He looked to be in his early twenties, but Illumi had never been a good judge of age.
“Here you are.” He handed the aftercare instructions to the woman with the new septum ring. “And remember—two saline soaks per day for three weeks, no less. Then once a day for the following eight weeks.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She folded the instructions and pocketed them. “I’ve done this before. I don’t want my nose fallin’ off anymore than you do.”
“Good.” Illumi stepped behind the register. The woman passed in front of the red-haired man but didn’t seem to pay him any mind. “That’ll be 9500 jenny.”
She fished a 10,000J bill out of her purse and set it on the counter. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you.” Not much of a tip, but better than nothing, he supposed.
“Don’t mention it. Catch ya next time!”
The door chimed again, and he was alone with the man.
“Can I help you?” Illumi’s voice was even, but his hand reached for the pistol under the counter. It was right where he’d left it, and he was glad for the cold reassurance of metal against his skin.
“That depends,” said the man. “Are you Illumi Zoldyck?”
The smile that touched the man’s yellow eyes said he already knew damn well who he was, but Illumi indulged him nevertheless: “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, good.” The man’s voice dropped in pitch, but remained smooth as silk; it was not a husky voice, but there was a certain sensuality to it that sent a cold thrill down his spine. Illumi tacked five years onto his age estimate. The man was at least his age, probably older.
“I take it you are not here for a tattoo?”
“Mmm.” The man leaned across the counter until his face was inches from Illumi’s chest. He looked up through black lashes, his expression almost demure. “That depends on your answer to my next question.”
Illumi narrowly suppressed the urge to step back.
“Tell me,” he continued, “are you hiring?”
“Hiring?”
“Yes. I have a variety of skills which I’m sure your organization would find...useful.”
“Ah.” Illumi’s fingers curled around the butt of the gun. A group of boys passed in front of the shop, their animated shouts muffled by the bulletproof glass. “I’m afraid we aren’t hiring.”
The man’s smile did not falter. “You sure?”
“If I gave every trigger-happy idiot who wanders into my shop a place on our payroll, my family would be bankrupt in less than a year.”
He laughed at that. The laugh was every bit as chilling as his voice, and somehow just as musical. “Touché. Then I suppose I am here to talk tattoos, after all.”
Illumi tentatively released his grip on the gun. “Did you have a design in mind?”
“Not really.” The man shimmied out of his jacket, revealing a plain white crew-neck that was at least one size too small; his torso was trim, but his arms were bulging out of the sleeves as if desperate to escape. “I need something covered up.”
“Ah.” Illumi eyed him carefully. The man had no visible tattoos. “I’ll need to see it.”
“Of course.” He took a sudden step to the left, skirting the counter. Illumi’s hand was back on the gun before his foot touched the floor; before he could take a second step, it was pointed squarely at his head.
“Move and I shoot.”
The man still wore that same insufferable smile. Illumi was beginning to wonder if his face was stuck that way.
“Now, Illu—may I call you Illu?”
“No.”
“Illumi, then,” he purred. “If you found my presence threatening you should have let me know. Allow me to assuage your worries.” He lifted his shirt to the waist and slowly turned around. There was no gun in his waistband.
“Hands on your head. Face me.”
The man obliged without protest. Closing the distance between them, Illumi thrust the gun against the juncture of his jaw and neck, sliding his free hand along the man’s outer thigh.
“You are alone?” he asked, retrieving a leather wallet from one of the front pockets. The opposite pocket was empty, save for a tube of what looked like lipgloss.
“There’s no one outside waiting to kill you, if that’s what you mean.”
Illumi flipped open the wallet, careful to keep the pressure of the gun constant. In the driver’s license photo, the man’s hair was cotton candy blue. His name was Hisoka Morow, and he was older than Illumi’s second guess—two years shy of thirty.
He slipped the wallet back into the man’s pocket. “Keep your hands on your head and turn around.”
The man turned again, his back to Illumi. He seemed to be enjoying the attention. “Do you get this, ah...personal, with all of your customers, or am I special?”
Illumi ignored him. Finding the man’s rear pockets empty, he kneeled down, letting the muzzle of the gun trace the spine while he checked the sides of the man’s legs. There was no knife strapped beneath the blue denim, and it would be impossible to conceal a weapon inside the red stiletto heels.
Satisfied that he was unarmed, Illumi clicked the safety on his pistol and shoved it into his own waistband. “You can put your arms down, Mr. Morow.”
“Please,” said the man, dropping his arms to his sides, “call me Hisoka.”
“Hisoka, then. Like I said, I will need to see your tattoo.” Illumi gestured to the rear of the parlour. “If you need privacy, there is a back room.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Hisoka remained facing the wall, as if admiring the flash designs which covered it from ceiling to floor. Needle Eye had been in business for nearly five years, and its proprietor was a prolific artist.
“Hisoka?”
The man turned his head and looked askance at Illumi. There was danger in that look, lurking beneath his expression like a carnivore in dark waters. “You drew these?”
Illumi crossed his arms. “Yes. Are you going to show me your tattoo or not?”
“I am, of course.”
After another long look at the wall, he finally peeled off the white crew neck. What was underneath it made Illumi draw his gun a second time.
A twelve-legged spider sprawled across the man’s upper back, stark black against pale skin. Illumi pointed the pistol at the symbol on its abdomen, a bright red number four. Were he inclined to impulse decisions, he might have killed the man then and there; as it was, he kept the gun’s safety engaged.
“I know it won’t be cheap to cover.” Hisoka was watching him, shirt in hand, evidently unfazed by the gun’s reappearance. “But I’m afraid I have no other choice.”
Illumi’s eyes darted to the door and back again. The street was empty, but that didn’t mean the other spiders weren’t nearby. “You’ve defected from the Troupe?”
Letting out a low chuckle, Hisoka turned around; his chest, like his arms, was free of tattoos. “Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“Oh, yes.” He licked his lips. “But before I leave, I thought you might benefit from having a man on the inside, hmm? I’ve been with the Troupe for more than two years. I know the faces and names of every member, and the whereabouts of several bases.”
“You are selling that information?”
“Yes.”
Illumi slowly lowered the gun. If there were going to be an ambush, it would have happened by now. Besides, very few valuables were kept in the shop; aside from his own life, for which his father would pay a decent ransom, there was nothing the Troupe would deem worthy of stealing.
“What is your price?” said Illumi.
“So you’re interested?”
“Yes.”
Hisoka ran a hand through his hair (an arduous process, considering the amount of product in it). The scent of hairspray was nearly as strong as the man’s perfume, which was almost sickeningly sweet, like something a young girl would wear. He was dangerous—that much was certain—but otherwise, Illumi wasn’t sure what to make of the man.
“Hmm,” said Hisoka. “As for my price, I have something in mind.”
“Name it.”
“Ah-ah,” he chided. “You already know more about me than I about you, Illumi. And with your resources I am sure you will find out everything there is to know about me before the night is out. I’d learn more about you, before I tell you anything else. Quid pro quo, and all.”
Illumi cocked his head. It was no use threatening him with the gun; the man didn’t have the good sense to be afraid. “What exactly did you want to know?”
“Too many things to discuss here.” Hisoka glanced at the door. His expression shifted from something threatening to something more subtle, almost sly. “Would you object to discussing the matter over dinner?”
Illumi blinked. Was he…? Yes, there was no doubt about it. This Hisoka Morow, avowed turncoat of the Phantom Troupe, was coming onto him. In fact, he probably had been the entire time; Illumi was not the best at reading the intentions of others, even in the most favorable circumstances.
Still processing this new facet of their conversation, Illumi produced a clipped, monosyllabic response: “Yes.”
“Yes, you’ll go to dinner with me, or—?”
“Yes, I object.”
Hisoka’s lower lip protruded in a pout. “A shame. Over drinks, then?”
Illumi took a deep breath. His first instinct was to say no—the man disconcerted him, and he hated feeling off balance—but the Phantom Troupe was his family’s greatest rival, and a chance like this was unlikely to present itself again.
“There is a bar on the corner of 82nd and 9th,” said Illumi. “Called Mike’s.”
Hisoka smiled. “I know the place.”
“Be there at ten o’clock tonight. We will discuss the details of your payment.”
“I can’t wait.” Hisoka pulled the shirt down over his head, concealing the tattoo again. Now that he knew what to look for, Illumi could see the dark legs branching out beneath white fabric. “You’ll be alone, of course?”
“Yes. I expect the same from you.”
“Naturally.” Plucking his jacket from the narrow bench by the shopfront, Hisoka pressed two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. “Until tonight.”
Illumi inclined his head. “Do not be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The door chimed once more, and Illumi was alone.
“Well, his record’s far from clean. Two counts of aggravated assault, and a long history of disorderly conduct, petty theft, vandalism...” Milluki paused to inhale a handful of potato chips, gesturing at the screen as he chewed. Hisoka’s mugshot was not unlike his driver’s license photo—it bore that ubiquitous smile—but his hair was closer to magenta than to blue. Illumi vaguely wondered what his natural hair colour could be.
“He’s spent seven years locked up altogether, three of those being in juvie,” continued Milluki. “Most recent sentence ended three years ago. You said he took up with the Phantom Troupe around then?”
“He claims to have been a member for two years.”
“Well, the timeline checks out, at any rate.” Milluki spun his chair around and looked up at Illumi. He was silhouetted against the largest, central monitor; the glow of the other two, which flanked him on either side, made him look exceedingly pale. “You said you’re meeting this guy tonight?”
“Yes. At Mike’s.”
Milluki brushed a few crumbs from his pink button-up shirt. “You told Father yet?”
“I am not going to.” Illumi shoved his hands into his back pockets, still absorbing the information on the screens. The left displayed Hisoka’s employment history, which was considerably shorter than his criminal record; before his last stint in prison, he'd worked as a bouncer at one of Yorknew’s most prominent gay bars. Illumi silently marveled at never having seen him there. Surely he would have noticed such a man.
“You’re not going to?” echoed Milluki.
“Not at first. I will set up a meeting with Father if all goes well, of course. I do not wish to get his hopes up, in the event this Hisoka is not useful to us after all.” He shot Milluki a look. “You are not to tell him either.”
“I won’t, I won’t.” Milluki grinned at him. “You really think we can pull this off? Taking down the Troupe, I mean.”
“Of course. Their extermination is a matter of when, not if; last year’s assault made certain of that. If Hisoka fails us, we will find another way.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
Illumi shrugged. He fingered the knife in his pocket. “Easy or not, it will be done.”
Milluki’s apartment was three floors down from Illumi’s (the Zoldycks owned the building, along with several other pieces of real estate in the Yorknew area). A few months prior, just one week after his eighteenth birthday, Milluki had moved out of his family’s Yorknew residence—purportedly seeking independence, but Illumi suspected he just wanted more room for his ever-growing collection of pornographic body pillows.
Though he was far from the favorite sibling, Illumi had to admit that having his brother close by was convenient. Being able to find out anything about anyone was invaluable in their line of work, and Milluki was the best. His lack of combat experience made him a liability in the event of a confrontation, but no one was stupid enough to challenge a member of the Zoldyck syndicate.
Well. No one save the Phantom Troupe.
With three hours left before his meeting (he refused to think of it as a date), Illumi mounted the stairs, deep in thought. Though the Troupe had been silent since the incident, his animosity had not diminished over the past ten months. That they’d interfered with the heist was bad enough—they lost well over a billion jenny that day—but his grandfather’s injury was unforgivable. Zeno Zoldyck had since taken charge of the estate in Padokia, as the presence of the butlers would ensure his comfort and safety. He could never work in the field again, of course. Wheelchairs were not conducive to dodging bullets.
A yowling sound broke Illumi’s reverie. Was it time to feed Judas already?
As he opened the door to his apartment, a black cat nearly scrambled past him; accustomed to this, Illumi blocked the escape with his shin, slipped into the entryway, and closed the door behind him.
“There is no escape,” Illumi said solemnly. Judas considered him with big, golden eyes, and yowled once more.
“I know.” Illumi scooped up the animal and started towards the kitchen. “Your dinner is overdue.”
After giving Judas another half can of wet food (which he began devouring with gusto), Illumi made himself a peanut butter sandwich and settled onto the couch with his laptop. The Zoldyck Group’s chief financial officer had sent him their quarterly report, and he wanted to review it before the day was done.
He had just finished reading the report and was typing up a reply to the CFO’s email when his pocket began to buzz. He plucked his phone out, glanced at the caller ID, and answered it immediately.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Illumi Zoldyck, you're late for dinner again!”
Though he and Milluki lived separately from their parents and younger siblings, they were still expected to attend meals twice a week. In the wake of his encounter with Hisoka, it had completely slipped his mind.
“Sorry, Mother, but I won't be coming tonight. Something came up.”
Kikyo huffed. “Something more important than your family?”
“On the contrary, Mother." He set his empty plate aside and leaned back against the couch. It was a comfortable piece of furniture, made of soft black leather, and large enough to fill his sizable living room. "My meeting will serve our family's best interests.”
“A meeting? You didn't tell me about any meeting.”
“It is a recent development. It may go nowhere, and I did not want to worry you needlessly.”
“So secretive, Illu!" Her tone carried a hint of reproach. "Tell me how it goes.”
“You will be the first to know. Well, after Father, of course.”
“Of course.” There was a shout in the background, followed by: “Killua wants to speak with you.”
Illumi smiled. “Put him on.”
There was a rustle as the phone shifted hands. “Hey, Illu.” Killua’s voice was deeper than usual, but whether the drop in pitch was due to puberty or to an affectation of maturity was anyone’s guess. Twelve was a tender age, and his brother seemed increasingly concerned with maintaining a disaffected persona. Illumi was just glad he wasn’t too cool for his oldest brother yet.
“How are you, Killu?”
“Good. I made an A on that test I told you about.”
“I am not surprised,” said Illumi. “You are smarter than you give yourself credit for.”
“Yeah, yeah. Oh, and Alluka’s playing the lead in the school play! She’s a really great actress, you gotta see her.”
There was a distant squeal: “Hey, I wanted to tell Illu myself!”
Then, from Kikyo: “Sit down, Alluka!”
“Oops,” said Killua. “Well, I’d better go. Tell Judas hi for me.”
“I certainly will. Goodnight, Killu.”
“Night.”
Illumi slipped the phone into his pocket and resumed typing the email. Crepuscular light was seeping in through his large glass window, casting the room in shades of blue. It was not night yet, but it was getting close; another hour and it would be time to head to Mike’s.
A chirping sound from the foot of the couch alerted him to Judas’s presence.
“All done with dinner?” Illumi patted the cushion twice. “Come on, then.”
The cat leaped, sailed over the cushion, and landed perfectly in the centre of his laptop keyboard. A rapidly growing line of gibberish appeared at the bottom of his email.
“Judas,” he sighed. “You are not helping.”
Carefully extracting the laptop, Illumi allowed the animal to settle on his lap. He scratched between the pointed ears with a black-painted nail.
“Killua said hello,” he informed him. “And I am going out tonight. So be good.”
Judas purred thunderously and made no such promise.