Chapter Text
The auction house in Gordeau smelled of old money and older blood.
Kurapika adjusted his suit jacket, fingers ghosting over the hidden compartment where his chains rested, coiled and waiting. Eight months since York New. Eight months of hunting, searching, recovering. He'd retrieved seventeen pairs of Scarlet Eyes so far. Thirty-nine remained missing.
This auction house dealt in human curiosities. The kind that never made it to legitimate markets. The owner, a man named Veles, had purchased a pair of Kurta eyes six years ago—before the massacre, which meant they'd been taken from travelers, from the few who'd left the village. Still his people. Still his responsibility.
"Mr. Kurapika?" A woman in a black dress approached, her smile professional and empty. "Mr. Veles will see you now."
He followed her through halls lined with glass cases. Preserved specimens floated in formaldehyde. Bones arranged in artistic patterns. A human hand, each finger wearing a different ring. Kurapika's jaw tightened.
The woman led him to an office door, knocked twice, and departed without a word.
"Come in," called a pleasant voice.
Kurapika entered. The office was smaller than he'd expected, cramped with filing cabinets and books. Behind a mahogany desk sat Veles—a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and ink-stained fingers. He looked more like a librarian than a collector of human remains.
"Ah, Mr. Kurapika. Please, sit." Veles gestured to a leather chair. "I understand you're interested in acquiring certain items from my collection?"
"The Kurta eyes." Kurapika remained standing. "I'm prepared to pay double their market value."
"I'm afraid they're not for sale." Veles spread his hands apologetically. "They're among my most prized pieces. Absolutely irreplaceable."
"Everything has a price."
"True, but some prices aren't monetary." Veles leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, Mr. Kurapika—and that is your real name, isn't it? Not the alias you used to make this appointment—how did a Kurta survive the massacre? I was under the impression the Phantom Troupe was quite thorough."
Kurapika's hands twitched toward his chains. "That's not your concern."
"Oh, but it is." Veles' smile widened. "You see, I've been contacted by some associates. Very wealthy associates. They've been searching for a surviving Kurta for quite some time. The rewards they're offering for one—alive and intact—well. That's a price that interests me very much."
The trap closed.
Kurapika lunged, chains erupting from his right hand, but his Nen sputtered and died before the chains could fully manifest. His body seized, muscles locking. He fell to his knees, gasping.
"Don't bother," Veles said mildly. "The air in this room is laced with a Nen suppressor. Quite rare, quite expensive. My associates provided it." He stood, walking around the desk. "They're very interested in you, Mr. Kurapika. Something about your eyes being even more valuable while you're still alive. The way they glow red when you're emotional—quite the spectacle, I'm told."
Kurapika tried to move, to speak, but his body wouldn't obey. The paralysis was complete.
"Don't worry," Veles said as he opened a drawer and pulled out a syringe. "This will just make you sleep. When you wake up, you'll be meeting my associates. The Architect's Circle has been waiting a very long time for this."
The needle pierced Kurapika's neck. The world tilted, dimmed, and went black.
His last thought was of scarlet—the color of his clan's eyes, the color of sunset over their village, the color of blood.
Always blood.