**TW: SUICIDE, MOLESTATION/RAPE, SEXUAL AND PHYSICAL ABUSE, AND MILD GORE**
Wind whipped deafeningly in my ears and my body shuddered uncontrollably in the icy night air. I felt light on my feet, though. Maneuvering around ferns and jagged roots and trees felt simple in the darkness, although part of that was because of Machi. I was glad I'd chosen to go with her and Shizuku.
Unorganized flashes of running through this very same forest through tear-filled eyes and hardly a will to continue replayed in my mind. The familiarity felt uncomfortable, unsettling, reminding me of a darkness I wished I could forget about. However, it wasn't disabling—it was just that same regretfulness I'd identified before. I utterly despised the fact that my life was stolen away from me as a helpless child, that I was forced to endure an egregious existence, to say the least. It filled me with anger, and sadness.
That crushing, weighty sadness seemed to rest over me as we ran. Of course, it fueled my desire to continue with this mission, and I desperately wanted to find those at fault—I didn't care about justice, though; I didn't care about morality and equal punishment. I didn't believe in those things. Because how could I ever get my life back? How could I ever return to little (Y/n) and tell her she was okay? That she was safe? That no one would hurt her anymore? The inherent sensation of a miserable nostalgia continued to stifle any other thoughts I had. My eyes pricked.
Don't cry. Stop it.
Surprisingly, my breathing was still under control. The indescribable pain in my heart hadn't hindered me yet. And perhaps I was glad for it, thankful even—I felt driven by an apathetic revenge, and through the turbulence, the unending battle of my thoughts, my goal was what I was focused on. My mind felt violent and unforgiving; I couldn't decide between sadness and anger. But I knew that whoever I first laid my hands on would certainly wish for death—I wanted to feel shattered bones and hear guttural screams from the man who'd tormented me for so long.
As we continued on, the sight of a few flickering lights beyond the tree line made my heart rate spike, and I felt a hazy memory resurface. It made my skin crawl and my stomach feel uneasy.
Thud. Stinging. Why is my leg stinging? I can't be too loud.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Run. Run. I think I cut my leg on the window sill. Stay behind the houses—did I bring bandages? Does that matter right now? Shit, did they hear me?
Tears. My face feels swollen. Is that a tree? Ow, what the fucking hell?! My legs are so scraped up and shaky and how the fuck am I even standing right now but they keep carrying me further. I just want to sit down and scream and cry and no sound is coming out of my mouth—I can't breathe. Maybe I'll find something I can stab myself with, or something I can slit my wrists with.
I could kill myself and be done with this. I could kill myself. I could.
My eyes blurred, but I blinked furiously, refusing to cry. Everything felt too real, too current, too present, and yet I felt as though I was watching myself, my past self, from a third person's point of view, and the despair on her face was heartbreaking. In my mind, I knew the memories were mine, but they seemed so distant, as if they were owned by somebody else I wished to avenge. She was a scared girl, a hopeless girl—I wanted to put her at ease, to finally soothe the edge off of the flashbacks and the pain.
Machi's stride slowed. I could still barely see anything, besides a few illuminated squares beyond the trees, which I assumed were windows. I couldn't make out the size of the buildings or the shapes of them quite yet—I also had no idea where Shizuku had gone.
Running turned to walking and then walking turned to slowly moving. My hand tightened around Machi's—we were maybe two trees away from the backside of one of the brick houses. But I knew we weren't close enough to his home yet, even though they all looked about the same, all an ugly, dirty red stone to build a simple colonial style house. It would fool any passerby into automatically assuming that these people were simply hill jacks or country men; it kept any attractions away from the area. My chest felt tight and my limbs were tense as we carefully stepped over a few jagged bushes and ferns, making our way past one of the first homes and crouching lower as the light from a street lamp eerily exposed our surroundings further.
My heart was pounding so loud I don't think I could have heard Machi if she spoke. The energy was ominous and still—not even the sound of other creatures in the forest seemed to break the silence. Fleetingly, I wondered if Shalnark and Feitan disposed of each of the perimeter walkers, if there even had been any out, but I still couldn't feel any auric presences.
Most of the houses were a single story, maybe one or two of them with two stories—the only house with three stories was the home of my abuser. I'd never found it strange that I didn't know his name; I'd never bothered to learn it. To me, he was Tormentor; to me, he was Torturer. I hated him so passionately—what words could ever be used to describe the strength-wrenching despise which coursed through every vein in my body? Everything about him, I hated—his ugly face, his grating voice, his disgusting scent.
I remember it all so perfectly clearly, and yet it is utterly faded.
My teeth clenched together, and I swallowed down the furious lump in my throat, focusing back on the present, back on the third house we'd just passed—or was it the fourth? Machi and I kept behind the tree line, staying cautious by leaning low, though not a single soul was seen outside of the plain brick homes. The gravel road which separated the jauntily-angled buildings was empty, but I kept my eyes wide as adrenaline pumped viciously through my body, expecting to see someone, anyone, not that I would recognize anybody else but him. Everything was quiet.
I'm glad Chrollo ordered silence. I'm not sure if I could do this with any sort of raucous noise.
As we continued on, I spotted Shizuku behind a tree past another house, dusting herself off carefully. Machi must have seen her, too, because our pace sped minutely, and we both caught up to her in only a few moments.
"Have you seen anyone?" Machi asked, her stern voice hushed.
"Mnm." Shizuku shrugged and shook her head, and then turned to me, her glasses barely reflecting our dim surroundings. "Is that the house?"
I blinked and jerked my head in the direction of where she pointed her thumb. Swallowing dryly, I felt my throat turn to sandpaper and my tongue become a shriveled tissue in my mouth—the three-story brick building was facing slightly away from us, nestled furthest in the trees and probably twenty yards away.
Which window did I leave out of, again?!
I couldn't blink; my chest rose and fell raggedly, and breathing sounded far too loud in the undisturbed night atmosphere. The side of the house was what we were able to see now, and I located the exact window pane I'd snuck through just three months ago—it was still broken. But it hadn't been shattered in the first place because of me.
"Lez play a game ohf chaaaase," he slurred mockingly, stumbling around the living room with two empty beer bottles in his grotesque hands and reaching down for another empty one on the glass table.
My body trembled as I cowered in the corner behind the couch—he'd released me on purpose and forced me to run around the house. I'd already been hit once with an empty beer bottle, the glass shards cutting up my biceps and ripping parts of my clothes and digging into my back, but I could hardly feel the pain from the probably stinging cuts. I was petrified. I couldn't move. I felt paralyzed.
He ambled closer, a manic, drunken grin on his face, his yellow teeth glinting in the light from the television screen. Tears, endless tears, poured from my eyes. I could taste them in my mouth as it hung open in shock and horror. My legs moved and made me stand.
No. I don't want to stand. Maybe he'll hit me and accidentally kill me. Then I could be done with all of this. Stop moving. Stop backing up. Stop it.
But my legs didn't listen to me. They felt heavy and out of my control as I stumbled and tripped backwards when he turned around the side of the couch, that ravenous expression still twisting his vile features. I accidentally backed into a small table in front of the window, knocking a china vase down to the floor with a loud clattering sound as it crumbled into hundreds of pieces.
Fuck. Fuck. Dammit. See, legs? I told you not to move. Now he's going to beat me. He's going to cut me. He's going to hurt me. It's my fault. It's my fault.
My entire body jolted and jerked down to the floor, my palms landing on the bladed edges of the broken vase, bleeding as the glass sliced my skin and dug into the wounds, when an intense, ear-splitting shattering noise sounded from right above my head, more shards falling down around me. I yelped and whimpered, refusing to look up and not even feeling the glass digging beneath my fingernails and ripping away my flesh as my fists clenched in and out on the ground. My knees pressed into the shards. His foot came down on my back, shoving me further to the ground and making me cry out, stifling screams.
"Yoh made me break tha.... that window!" he drawled angrily, but a humorless, obnoxiously loud laugh escaped his throat. "Yoh like uhhhh... glass?"
The jagged ends of a broken beer bottle pressed into my backside as I huddled on the floor. I screamed and cringed away, but his big, grabbing hands took a handful of my hair, yanking my head up and stretching my neck out, forcing me to see his foul features, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he twisted the shards between my shoulder blades, tearing the thin material of my shirt and deeply gashing my already-scarred skin. Warm blood pooled from the injury, dripping down the sides of my body and soaking my shirt and eliciting guttural cries from my lungs and stomach.
Will it ever end? He doesn't typically get bored when he's drunk. It doesn't matter how loud I scream.
At least the window is broken and open. I doubt he'll bother fixing it. He's always drunk now.
Screams. Thrashing. Blood.
Tears. Pain.
Screeches and unending pain. Pain. Why do I hurt so badly?
The feeling of a hand on my shoulder brought me back to consciousness. I blinked—thank god, I blinked. My eyes were stinging awfully.
"(Y/n)," Machi said suddenly, her voice firm and sympathetic at the same time, "do you think you can do this?"
My head nodded up and down of its own accord. My mind felt elsewhere.
"Yes." I sounded dark, determined—nothing like how I felt. "I have to do this."
Without turning to face Machi or Shizuku, I brushed her hand away, though I was silently thanking them for their presence in that moment. I heard Machi sigh.
"I'm trusting that you're telling me the truth," she whispered, a note of sadness ringing in her tone.
Interesting.
"We'll go in through that broken window—it's safer than just busting down a door," Shizuku stated. "I checked already, too. There's nobody on the first level."
I paused for a moment, still with my gaze locked on that window, silently remembering.
Stop. Shut up. Turn it off.
Please, make it stop. Stop it.
"Have you gone inside?" I inquired without emotion, entirely deadpan.
"Yes. I went in while you and Machi walked together." I think I heard a smile in her voice. "There's lots of pretty things all over the mantle. I think I found some diamonds, too—I love diamonds."
I hummed in monotone. "Take whatever you want. I don't need any of it."
Each of us were silent for a few more minutes—I could tell that they were both looking to me, waiting for when I would nod or give a go-ahead. But each of us surged forward at the same time, sticking close to the trees, Zetsu still shrouding our auras. No words needed to be spoken.
He'd always had a drinking problem, but it seemed to worsen over time. The memory of the broken window felt so long ago—perhaps a year, perhaps a bit less. And he never fixed it. Triangles of glass dipped down from the top and up from the sill, weakened and eroded from the wind. It looked slightly more open than when I'd escaped, slightly wider and less jagged and sharp. At least we could get in easier because of it.
My heart was absolutely racing. Whereas everything was too real before, now, nothing seemed real; everything moved in slow motion as Shizuku climbed in first, helping me in after and then Machi last. I had to pause and force myself to inhale—I'd held my breath, and now my lips felt cold and cracked, my face drained of proper blood flow. Now that I was actually inside, my surroundings scooped up flashbacks and memories, countless ones, an infinite stream of visions. My mind couldn't focus on only one of them.
The large, low, sleek red leather couch sat in the center, the round glass coffee table between it and the flatscreen. Under my feet, light wood floors were decorated by an enormous designer carpet. There were cans and glass bottles littering the table. The fireplace to our left was unlit, and it seemed Shizuku was right about the collection of expensive items placed haphazardly overtop. I didn't care about those, though.
Strangely, my body had stopped shuddering uncontrollably, and I felt my gaze turn calmly to my right, my wide eyes examining the wooden staircase. The only light in this foundation-level living room was coming from the open doorway to the dining room and the kitchen, in which the overhead bulbs were still on. But every detail of this house still made me sick.
I wonder if this pathetic drunk has enslaved anyone else since I left.
I knew that if he had, and I somehow found them, I would rescue them in a heartbeat.
"Do you want me to follow you?" Machi breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
Slowly, I shook my head back and forth.
"No. I'm going upstairs."
As I turned, I felt Machi's hand on my wrist, stopping me. I didn't face her when she spoke.
"Shizuku and I are staying here, then," she murmured, and I knew it wasn't a question. "We'll come for you if you need us."
Pulling myself away from her grip, I nodded once without words, and stepped forward, heading up the stairs noiselessly.
Truthfully, I was grateful—I hadn't once doubted my ability, but my thoughts and the relentless flashbacks made things so much more difficult than it needed to be. Although now, I'd once again slipped into a third person state of mind, watching the floors intently and remembering each and every time (Y/n) stumbled up those stairs, each and every time (Y/n) was slapped down those stairs, punched and beaten and raped and tortured and forced quiet and slashed and whipped and helpless. The helplessness, the vulnerability, the powerlessness still ate at me whenever I thought back to those times. If only I'd been able to use my Nen—oh, the vicious death this man would have endured.
Automatically, it seemed, my body turned left down the hallway. If he wasn't in the living room, I knew where he would be. Most likely, at least, he would be in the game room, a large room on the right side of the hall, three doors down. My heart seemed to beat slower instead of faster; my breathing seemed to steady. I knew what I had to do.
He'll be sleeping. Or passed out.
Incapacitate him with Feeler. Remove and destroy his aura and Nen with Exorcist.
And finally, kill him. Slowly.
My lips twisted up into an oddly wide smile as I pondered the methods I could use to kill him. To watch him suffer and bleed out and die. But I didn't want to hear him speak to me, at all—the only thing I wanted to hear were his desperate screams.
I had to work to control my bloodlust as I approached the door to the game room. The hallway was unlit, but a blue light shone from the opened entry—I could see that it was large enough for me to fit through without having to push it open more and risk it squeaking. My gaze flickered to the other set of stairs at the far end, and back to the game room. I felt as though I were hovering above ground almost; my legs felt like jelly, but they still carried me silently, stalking closer and closer until I could peer inside.
Low murmurings from another flatscreen television currently replaying a game menu jingle sounded mutedly, and the looped scene caused the consistency of the light to change, so the room was still lowly lit. But the congested inhale of a snoring man caught my attention. I felt my body freeze in place, my blood running cold in my veins, as I looked upon the hairy, putrid man lazily passed out on the game chair, a black reclining chair, facing the game consol and screen.
Again, I couldn't move. I felt stuck in the doorway, my fists clenched into unbearably tight fists in the pockets of Chrollo's jacket. I couldn't project any aura, at first. My mind reverted back to the mind of a brainwashed slave, a cowering rat. His slimy body twitched in his sleep. And again, I had to make myself breathe. Something I'd long removed from my thoughts came bubbling to the surface amongst the many other memories threatening my steely resolve.
I choked and gargled as his gruff hand with fat fingers and calloused, scratchy, dead skin grabbed painfully at a thick clump of my hair and shoved me down on his cock. My mouth had been forced open, my teeth braced with some sort of face harness, my body chained and tied to the wall of my prison on the third level. A few of his friends were here, watching and laughing with intoxicated smiles as he ravaged my body and listened to me gag and scream without caring.
His disgusting face contorted in a groan, and his hand retracted as he hit me, hard, square in the ears. Suddenly, all I could hear was a distant ringing sound, barely feeling it when he hit me again, chortling with his tongue hanging out and slobbering foully. My body tried jerking against the restraints, my naked body which had been punched repeatedly, as well as raped three times that night, my fifteen year old body.
I cried furiously, deep screams tearing from the pits of my stomach each time he pumped in and out, still mocking my expressions, his friends, whoever they were, watching intently and following suit.
Fear enveloped me. Hatred consumed me. I didn't want to live anymore. I didn't want to live at all. I was tired of screaming and thrashing and choking and crying.
Slap. Smack.
"Dumb fucking cunt!" He pulled out and punched me across the face. "Suck my fucking cock, you slutty little whore! Stupid, worthless bitch."
His friends laughed, their tones light, as if they hadn't just witnessed the complete dehumanization and sexual abuse of a fifteen year old girl.
Vile humans. Every last one of them. Wicked, and the perfect demonstration of the charade of the human race. Each of them go out in public, be the reasons getting food or meeting up with family members or simply going for a drive—normal, everyday actions. But none of them could be trusted. Did those who passed by them in the streets understand who they really were? Vile, vile humans.
So, what do I do now?
My body was still unmoving, though unconsciously, I must have stepped forward, further into the room. My arm reached out behind me and carefully shut the door—no squeaking sounds were elicited, and if I could have heaved a sigh of any sort of relief, it would have been then. My eyes were misty and blurry, but no tears escaped. I didn't think I even still have the facilities to cry anymore. Everything felt so numb.
Think. Think. What first?
I had to be fast, to work quickly—but if he was passed out from drinking, which was highly likely due to the six cans of beer on the floor around him and the half-filled bottle of vodka, this would be much easier than I ever expected. If he did wake up, all I had to do was keep him from touching me.
I inched closer, slowly enabling Feeler and slithering it around his practically dead form, connecting instantly to his hardly activated emotional state. It was simpler to find where his mind met his aura—only because it was sickeningly familiar. I tightened my energy, constricting his body while keeping a reasonable distance. In this position, I was facing his side. His head was leaned back and his mouth open as he snored loudly, but his breaths were becoming less frequent with the strangling effect of Feeler.
Dispatch Exorcist. Do it now. He's going to wake up.
I expected my palms to be trembling, but they weren't; I expected my heart to be roaring, but it wasn't. A cold, icy sense of responsibility hovered over me as I stepped a bit closer, and again, a strange smile twisted my features. I'd been waiting for this moment for far, far too long.
My arms extended slightly as I projected Exorcist, combining it with Feeler to provide the numbing effect, and I latched onto his aura. Because of his aloof state, it was much easier to begin extracting his Nen—this type of "exorcism" was nothing like Chrollo's exorcism. Removing an enforced aura was far more difficult and time consuming, because that energy had been locked to the natural aura. In short, it already wasn't supposed to be there. It was much cleaner to simply pull away one's Nen, one's access to auric nodes, closing them forever.
Unlike Chrollo, also, I had no access to the abilities I stole, the Nen I extracted; I only absorbed its potency, which served to strengthen Exorcist and Feeler, and there were no conditions I needed to follow to "take" someone's Nen—I suppose, however, it was more like destroying their access to auric projections and weakening their will. Essentially, aura and Nen were forms of willpower.
I stared, unblinking, feeling the beginnings of his life force, his strength, solidifying the effects of Exorcist. His Nen was becoming frailer, more fragile, as each second passed. Apathy fogged my thoughts, and part of me wanted him to wake up, to know what was happening to him, but I wanted him awake after I'd made him helpless and powerless—I wanted him to feel everything he'd made me feel, as far as ultimate weakness, entirely exposed.
Who was I? Who had I become? Did I enjoy cold-hearted murder? Had I become a murderer? No—I'd always been a murderer. I'd been lying to myself when I thought I could never truly feel this much hatred, this much bloodlust, because I've always felt this way. I've always wished for the liberating sensation of holding the air one breathed in my very palms, holding their choice of life or death in my hands. But why?
Because I am obsessed with the control it allows me.
I'd never been able to control what happened to me. My entire life had been mapped out for me, until I finally seized it and forced it to be the way I wanted it to be. Control had always been something I lacked, but not here, not now. In that moment, I was the one holding this egregious man's life in my hands, and I enjoyed every fucking moment of it. Every last drop of his Nen was wrung out, his auric nodes, his energy and flow of willpower, entirely drained. My abuser, my tormentor, my torturer, had finally been stripped of his stifling ability, an ability which could temporarily control other abilities upon physical contact. Finally.
Finally.
I felt the rush of foreign strength and life force course through my veins, my Ren growing in density and size, projecting further and locking his body in place with Feeler. It was like pulling a heavy rope through sludge—slow and consistent. As I retracted Exorcist, I allowed Feeler to explore his body, just to be sure that his nodes were closed, closed as if he'd never learned Nen in the first place, the only difference being that now he could never relearn it. Any enhanced defenses or Ren techniques were torn away from him. He was now utterly powerless.
My abuser is powerless.
His bushy brown eyebrows twitched in his unconscious state, furrowing, creating an angry expression on his slimy face. But he was still asleep.
Dropping Feeler, I exhaled heavily, my chest heaving, and stumbled back a few steps. My body sunk down to the floor as I pushed myself up against the wall. I think tears began flowing from my eyes—that must be why my face felt wet, why my stinging gaze still seemed blurry and unfocused.
Slowly, I brought my knees to my chest, curling up into a fetal position, my head in my legs and my arms tensed around them, gripping ferociously. Involuntarily, a sob built in my lungs, in the pit of my stomach—my shoulders trembled as I strained to stifle it, to hold back the sound it would make, but I could hardly do it. The lump in my throat ached and my eyes were shut so tight I felt my head begin to pound as I shuddered out another low-pitched cry, sniffing automatically. Of every time I'd cried in my life because of this man, every time I'd screeched and yelled and screamed, ironically, when I was the one controlling the situation, this time felt the most intense. My heart seemed to skip beats, jaggedly thudding against my ribcage, and I realized that it was not me who was crying—it was little (Y/n), helpless (Y/n), young, baby (Y/n). The (Y/n) who'd felt unsafe for so long was going to be free, and it was the most crushing sensation I had ever experienced, something I couldn't quite process immediately.
You're safe now, I told her inwardly. I promise you are.
So, cry it out. When he wakes up, I will put an end to this. I will kill him and his memory, and you and your memory, and I will finally set you free.
*Chrollo POV*
I was not certain whose house I was entering—either way, the door had been unlocked. In my right hand, I held Bandit's Secret, flipped open to the very first page, to Acheros' ability. I was silent as I opened the front door, the only sound being the muted click as it shut, but there was no other noise in the one-story home. My eyes traveled immediately to a framed piece of music at the end of the foyer hallway, and with mild interest, I approached it, examining its appearance and determining its possible worth.
An original copy of the violinist solo in Lacrimosa, by Mozart. How utterly fitting.
To the best of my ability, I pulled it off the wall with my free hand and released the backing of the frame, allowing it to clatter loudly to the ground and bending down to pull out the sheet music. Everything about it seemed authentic—I folded it up and placed it carefully in my pocket.
From the energy in the home, I could tell that whoever lived here was a Nen user, but their auric presence was very weak. I didn't need to hardly lift a finger to fight them—in fact, I didn't feel like torturing anyone. I didn't want to drag this out. I wanted to finish off as many as I could, as rapidly as possible, so that I could find my (Y/n), my love, and comfort her.
Thinking about her made my heart race, and I turned around, eagerly searching for the resident and swiftly ghosting back to the main foyer. The house was small, the interior well-thought-out and efficient, and I had no issue finding the living room. A smile widened over my face as I spotted a man, possibly around the age of his mid-thirties, reclined lazily with his hands loosely folded behind his head, watching some mindless television program—I shifted closer, entirely shrouded by Zetsu, and completely invisible.
Sadly, however, his Nen was not worth stealing, but honestly, I didn't have the patience to chat with him about how it worked and ask for a demonstration.
Damn conditions.
I had no idea how many of these bastards were actively involved in human trafficking, but that was of little relevance. The only one on my mind in that moment was (Y/n), her beautiful face, her timid demeanor when she needed me, her stubborn energy when she was determined to prove herself—all of which had been tainted and broken by these worthless vultures. My drive to kill was shot up each passing second, and I took a step closer, lowering down into a chair only a few feet away from the recliner this man was in.
His mouth opened in a raucous laugh, most likely directed towards whatever he was watching—his sandy hair was shaved to a buzz around his scalp, his body thin and slight, tattooed with meaningless words and phrases. Leaning back in my chair, I observed him for a few more moments, wondering if he'd ever known (Y/n), and feeling another twisted smirk etch itself into my expression. Either way, he would die tonight.
On his wrist, a pretty gold watch sat buckled together—I made a note to remove it before I left. With a silent sigh, I released Bandit's Secret, closing the book and revealing myself, not bothering with Zetsu. I was just to the right of where he sat, his smug, ridiculous face focused on the flashing television light for only a moment longer before he froze slightly. First, his eyes flickered to me, and then his entire body leaped backwards, his expression petrified and then surprised and then confused—but this slew of emotions was all tinted by fear.
He's very jumpy, I mused inwardly, crossing my legs and folding my hands together in my lap as I held eye contact with the slithery man.
His mouth opened once, and then closed, as if he'd thought better of what he was going to say at first. Impatiently, I waited, keeping my expression neutral and cold.
"Wh-who are you?" he asked tentatively, chuckling nervously.
His voice was nasal and obnoxious—I didn't like it.
"Who are you?" I inquired, keeping my tone low and tilting my head.
Momentarily, I noticed a flicker of understanding in his beady gaze.
"Listen, i-if you're one of Lee's friends, I don't have the money yet." He held up his hands, still emitting forced laughs which grated on my nerves. "Hey, man, I can give you this watch, though. O-only if you want it... uh, you could get some new inks with it, only if you like tattoos. I-I just assumed because of your forehead..."
The trivial observations of those who held no real comprehension always delighted me. A smile softened my features, and I stood carefully, holding eye contact with him and taking a step closer, watching as he flinched backwards.
"I'll take the watch, if you don't mind." I shrugged, extending a hand.
I found his fluttering fear to be amusing, and I wondered who Lee was.
Perhaps he is (Y/n)'s abuser...? If he was expecting some sort of payment from this man... and (Y/n)'s abuser lives in the largest home here, as well, apparently with the most powerful Nen ability. I certainly do wonder...
With shaky hands, the man unlatched his watch and tossed it towards me—I caught it, flashing a wider smile as I tucked it neatly away and taking another step forward. He couldn't move back any further; he was at the edge of the single-seated sofa. Again, I moved closer, and now I was looking down on him from where he sat, his eyes wide and a pleading grin on his face.
"Who's Lee?" I asked.
Confusion made his eyes blink several times, and he paused.
"Um, the guy that owns this whole place." He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "He's teaching me and a few of my buddies who just moved here about this thing called Nen. I haven't developed a Hotso technique yet, though—I'm not very good, I guess. I sensed you after you already came in."
My eyes narrowed. I was far too impatient to listen to this utter moron blabber on about his affairs with a rapist and a sex trafficker.
So, Lee is most likely who I think he is. I wonder if (Y/n) knows that yet.
She'd never spoken his name before, but I assumed it was simply for trauma reasons—it hadn't occurred to me that perhaps it was because she never actually knew it.
"Did you mean to say Hatsu?" I blinked slowly, a threatening smile shifting my features. "And may I ask what your name is?"
"Sure, I-I guess..." He trailed off slightly, still staring wide-eyed up at me. "M-my name is Jon. What's y-"
My hand shot forward, interrupting his unpleasant rambles, and I gripped his throat viciously, plunging my thumb into his trachea. A wrenching gasp expanded his chest and his skinny arms lifted, grabbing feebly at my wrist and my fingers and attempting to pry me away. My heart seemed to calm slightly at the sight of this helpless, writhing man, the light gently dying from his eyes as he strained for breath.
"You're making things worse for yourself by struggling," I murmured softly, pulling him closer and tightening my grasp.
His eyes squeezed shut, his skin becoming pasty and sweaty with the effort it took for him to maintain any proper airflow. In my free hand, I dispatched Bandit's Secret, flipping to the page of a Transmuter's ability and feeling my skin tingle as my aura shifted.
"Who—wh-who... are... y-ou?!" he rasped.
I was silent for a moment, watching as he opened his eyes into mine again, staring unfeelingly and waiting for him to put up some kind of fight, but he never did. His fingers still clawed and ripped furiously on my wrist, and I heard a muted popping sound as the joints in his hands snapped and slid out of place with the force of his minuscule strength, his tendons pulling and yanking and his veins visible within his white knuckles. His body began jerking slightly when I shoved my thumb further into his Adam's apple, entirely crushing his throat, and his mouth opened in a silent scream, no noise escaping.
"I am Lucifer," I whispered, keeping my voice soothing and gentle.
The aura in my hands shifted into a sharp, pointed end, and my fingernails sliced into his neck, the aura slashing through his airways and sending him into a gurgling, sputtering puddle, his body twitching as his eyes glazed and blood slowly filling his lungs as he succumbed to death. After that, the quiet seemed to ring and reverberate from wall to wall, the mourning silence of murder, a silence I had grown accustomed to and comforted by.
My mind felt slightly clearer. I released a heavy exhale, rapidly tearing my hand away from his neck and down his chest, flaying open his abdomen and watching with disinterest as stark, thick red liquid oozed from the gash.
With the disappearance of that Nen ability, the disappearance of the blood on my hands was possible. Not quite content yet, however, I walked slowly from the home, once again turning to Acheros' ability and stalking carefully to the next house.
So, they all work for Lee, and Lee keeps them quiet by promising to teach them Nen—hopefully I can collect more information from the next resident. Hopefully he will be a bit more entertaining.
I don't feel merciful tonight.