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After nine years of solo missions, Illumi was deeply confident in his abilities. He had begun his career at the tender age of seven, forged in a household where his parents seemed to possess absolutely no regard for his well-being. As the eldest, Illumi simply accepted this cold indifference as the baseline of existence. However, when Milluki was born, a gradual realization dawned on him: his parents grew softer with every successive child. Milluki hadn’t endured even half of the "lessons" Illumi had been forced to master since the age of five.
Killua was a different story entirely. Their parents guarded the boy as if their lives—or rather, the Zoldyck heritage—depended on it. While Killua underwent training, it was nothing compared to the absolute hell Illumi had survived, though it was still enough to leave both Killua and Milluki traumatized.
Milluki often wondered how his brother had become such an expressionless, unfazed asshole with a dry, unfortunate sense of humor that never landed. Illumi rarely smiled; he only offered the occasional malicious smirk. In rare moments of peace, Milluki and Killua theorized that Illumi was the product of the war crimes Silva mindlessly recalled—tales of torture used to "harden" his eldest son. While Silva and Kikyo recounted these unsavory memories, Illumi would simply listen with a blank, void-like stare. Every so often, he would mention he didn’t remember a specific detail, only for Kikyo to coddle him in her warped way: “Oh dear, of course you don’t! You were drugged.”
“Ah,” Illumi would reply.
Then came Alluka, whom Illumi dismissed as a monster, and finally the newborn Kalluto. Illumi knew things wouldn't end well for the youngest, but he took solace in the fact that it would never be as bad as it was for him. Despitem Killua’s hatred, Illumi truly cared for his family. He showed it in his own way—keeping Milluki quiet company while he coded, or pulling his punches during Killua's training. Milluki didn't mind, often offering Illumi snacks that the eldest would refuse due to his strict diet. Killua, however, was a paradox: he hated when Illumi went easy on him, yet grew furious when Illumi fought for real.
Maybe someday, Illumi would figure him out.
The mission was supposed to be easy: kill the target, send proof, bury the body. It was the kind of routine work that had bored Illumi for years. Nevertheless, he obeyed his father’s wishes without a hint of opposition.
As he approached the target's location, he sensed something was wrong—not the feeling of being followed, but something more eerie. He felt he was walking straight into a trap. He stepped back, reanalyzing. Perhaps he was exaggerating? No, his hunches were never wrong. He turned to scan the gothic, dark room, dimly lit by a faint trace of moonlight.
Outside, it had begun to rain.
Suddenly, a hand yanked him violently by his hair. Illumi reacted instantly, but another pair of hands clamped around his waist. He threw his body backward, bringing both himself and his assailant to the floor. Two of them, he noted. He could handle two.
He reached for a needle, but a devastating punch to his stomach sent him flying. The force was so immense he nearly lost consciousness as he crashed through the wooden doors, shattering them and tumbling out into the pouring rain. He coughed, struggling to rise, when another sharp tug on his hair forced his face upward.
Illumi coughed, a spray of crimson mixing with the rainwater. He tried to rise, but a heavy boot slammed into his thigh. A sickening crack echoed through the garden—his femur had snapped.
Illumi simply stared at the bone-white moon, his pupils dilated but fixed. He rolled, sweeping the legs of the man over him even with a broken limb, and drove a needle into the attacker's calf.
The man yelled out in pain and grabbed a fistful of Illumi’s hair and smashed his head against the floor, Illumi remind somewhat glued to the floor and saw the mans calf quickly morphing into an awful, twisted shape.
He laughed to himself.
"Persistent little doll, isn't he?" a different voice boomed.
A fourth man, a giant standing well over seven feet, stepped into the light. He was bald, scarred, and missing his left eye, his presence radiating a murderous Nen. He lunged, and though Illumi parried with his remaining strength, a jagged combat knife found its way into Illumi’s shoulder, twisting deep into the muscle. Then came the blunt force—a heavy mace-like fist collided with Illumi’s side.
The world tilted. Blood obscured his vision, turning the silver rain into a red haze. He was pinned, his broken leg screaming in silent agony, his shoulder leaking warmth into the cold mud.
Illumi stared back with his naturally wide, lifeless eyes, even as the rain forced them half-shut.
“And here I thought the Zoldycks were better than this,” the man laughed. He gripped Illumi’s chin, inspecting his face before delivering a stinging slap. “Sorry. You’re pretty handsome for an assassin,” his gaze darkened, “but your face pisses me off.”
“His big eyes would sell for a fortune on the black market, y’know the cost of those Scarlett Eyes? Maybe we would get them for a little less, but they sure are more beautiful,” another man chimed in. Illumi remained unfazed; he had been assaulted more times than he could count. “Maybe his soft hair would, too,” the man added, leaning in to sniff Illumi's hair pervertedly.
Illumi felt his left foot stabilize in the mud. He gathered his strength, impulsed himself into a backflip away from them, and held a needle out defensively. He was sixteen, a prodigy, and he wouldn't go down easily.
But there were more.
A figure lunged from the shadows, driving a blade deep into Illumi’s back and he felt it dive into his organs. Illumi hissed, spinning to counter, but the giant bald man moved with surprising speed, delivering another heavy kick that snapped Illumi’s ribs with a sickening crack.
His vision blurred. Blood mixed with the rain, stinging his eyes. He fought like a cornered animal, stabbing one man in the throat with a needle even as he slumped, but the sheer numbers and the weight of his injuries began to take their toll.
He saw a dark shadow loom over him. A harsh, medicinal needle was jabbed into his neck. The world began to spin instantly. He tried to fight the drug, reaching for the man walking toward him, but his strength failed. He collapsed straight into the giant’s arms.
His eyes fluttered as he felt his shirt being ripped open and his pants undone.
“Still awake, huh?” the taller man sneered, his gaze darkening as he undid his own belt. “Well, I would love to listen to your precious moans.”
Illumi caught one final glimpse of the man’s predatory expression before he blissfully passed out.
Blearily, Illumi woke. He shifted his head weakly to the side, his eyelids feeling like lead as he forced them open. The world was a smear of colors—muted greens and greys that refused to snap into focus. Where…?
He began a mental inventory, a habit drilled into him since he could walk. He was still outside, but the hard, cold mud had been replaced by the rough bark of a tree against his spine. The rain had stopped, leaving only the oppressive humidity of the damp earth. He tried to shift his weight, but a white-hot spike of agony flared in his side, radiating from the stab wound and his shattered leg.
“You’re awake, I see?” a smooth, melodic voice called out.
Illumi’s internal alarms shrieked, instantly triggering a fight-or-flight response that his battered body couldn't quite execute. He tried to track the source of the voice, but his vision remained an agonizing blur. He felt a presence—vibrant, erratic, and suffocatingly powerful—draw closer.
“Giving me the silent treatment after I just saved you? Hm~?” The voice pouted with a playful, dangerous lilt. “I would’ve liked for you to at least thank me, Illumi Zoldyck.”
The mention of his name acted like a shot of adrenaline. Illumi forced his senses to sharpen, fighting through the haze of the drugs and the concussion. Finally, the figure resolved into focus.
The man was a walking contradiction. He wore a teal crop top and pants so tight they seemed like a second skin. His face was a mask of white powder, adorned with a pink star on his left cheek and a lime-green tear on his right. His hair was a shock of wavy red, slicked back to reveal a gaze that was slanted, feline, and dripping with malice. The man licked his lips, reaching out to tilt Illumi’s face up.
An involuntary, pained groan escaped Illumi’s throat. The movement sent a fresh wave of stinging heat through his side. His gaze drifted down, and he realized with a start that the clown’s hand wasn't just resting near him—his long, sharp fingernails were pressing directly into the edges of Illumi’s open stab wound.
“So,” the man started, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “how ever will you repay me?”
The hand left the wound, trailing up to Illumi’s black hair, carressing the damp strands with a gentleness that felt utterly wrong. Had it not been for the active agony and the predatory aura radiating from the stranger, Illumi might have likened the touch to his mother’s warped version of affection.
“W… why did you…?” Illumi managed to breathe out. Each word felt like swallowing glass. He wasn't naive; he knew men like this didn't perform acts of mercy. He needed to know the price of his life.
“Why did I saved you?” The clown looked up thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his chin. “Because you’re cute~” he whispered directly into Illumi’s ear, his breath sending a violent shiver down the assassin’s spine. “Oh, but don’t worry. I won’t force you into anything you don’t want to. If anything, those men sure seemed to know what they were doing.”
The implication hit Illumi like a physical blow. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the soreness in his hips, the dull, throbbing ache that signaled a violation he had been too drugged to fully witness. He stared blankly at the man, his chest heaving as he struggled for air.
“What do you want?” Illumi asked, his voice presenting itself in its usual monotone tone, but with a sharp twig of desperation and hurt. Something so faint, anybody who didn’t know Illumi would think he’s fine. He had to get away. He had to return to the mountain.
“Oh! nothing~ ,” the man winked, before suddenly plunging his fingers deeper into Illumi’s shoulder wound. Illumi’s vision sparked white, the scream dying in his parched throat. “I was just bored,” The man said holding a finger to Illumi’s lips
As the clown’s nails dug into the muscle, his expression shifted to something more calculating. “I hear the Zoldycks have other… younglings? Potential little fruits just waiting to ripen?”
The mention of his siblings acted as a catalyst. His parental instincts overrode the pain, the broken leg, and the paralytic still sluggishly moving through his blood. In a burst of desperate, jagged movement, Illumi tumbled forward.
Using his remaining momentum, he pinned the clown to the damp grass, straddling the man’s torso. He whipped a needle from his hidden sleeve, pressing the point directly against the man's jugular.
“You… stay away from them,” Illumi hissed. The vacancy in his eyes had been replaced by a dark, swirling void of pure killing intent. “I’ll kill you… right now…”
The needle pierced the skin, drawing a thin line of crimson that ran down the man’s throat. Despite his shattered state, Illumi’s grip on the man’s wrists was unnervingly strong, fueled by a primal need to protect the only things he considered his own.
The clown didn't flinch. In fact, his pupils dilated with a sickening delight. He felt the sheer weight of Illumi’s bloodlust—it was cold, sharp, and refined, like a blade forged in a glacier. It was exquisite. He watched as Illumi’s long hair brushed against his cheek, the rain beginning to fall once more, drenching them both.
“Hm~” the man hummed, his amber eyes shimmering with amusement rather than fear.
Illumi searched those eyes for a long moment. He saw madness, yes, and a terrifying hunger, but he didn't see the immediate intent to strike. The adrenaline peaked and then vanished, leaving Illumi’s body a hollow shell of exhaustion. The needle trembled, then dropped from his nerveless fingers.
His strength spent, Illumi’s head hung low, his forehead nearly resting against the clown’s chest. He remained slumped over the man, a predator who had nothing left to give but his own silence.
The man turned Illumi onto his side, hoisting the teenager up with a strength that belied his lean frame. Illumi let out a low, pained moan as his shattered leg dragged against the earth, to which the man replied with a series of quiet, mocking coos.
This man is repulsive, Illumi thought, his mind struggling to maintain its typical clinical detachment through the fog of pain.
Somehow, with the stranger moving with a fluid, voracious grace, they made their way up the treacherous slopes of Kukuroo Mountain. When they reached the towering Testing Gates, the man unceremoniously dumped Illumi onto the ground. Illumi hissed, his dark eyes flashing with a rare, sharp glare.
"What? I have to enter the code, don’t I~?" the man said cheerfully, tilting his head and wearing a mask of faked innocence that made Illumi’s skin crawl.
"There is no code," Illumi gritted out, his voice rasping. "Just... help me up."
The man obliged, sliding a firm arm around Illumi’s waist. Illumi leaned heavily into the stranger, loathing the necessity of the contact but knowing his body was moments away from complete collapse. He guided the man through the gates, ensuring they both gained entry. God knew why he was trusting this flamboyant lunatic, but the alternative was a slow death in the dirt.
As they approached the main estate, the adrenaline that had been keeping Illumi’s heart beating began to vanish, replaced by a crushing, cold weight. The man lowered him to the porch with a disgusting, mocking gentleness. He reached out, rang the doorbell with a flourish, and vanished into the shadows of the trees before the echoes even died down.
Illumi felt his consciousness fraying. He saw the manor lights flicker on, heard the heavy creak of the door, and felt the familiar, steady hands of Gotoh, catching him before his head hit the stone.
"...aster... Illumi... nursing... medical... now!"
The words were underwater, distorted and distant. As the world faded to black, Illumi’s final thought was a fleeting, irritation-filled realization: he didn't even know the man’s name.
Recovery in the Zoldyck household was never a matter of comfort. When Illumi finally drifted back to the living world, he found himself in his own bed, the sterile scent of the infirmary clinging to his skin.
Silva was sitting beside him, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the room.
"Illumi. You’re awake," the man said bluntly.
Illumi could only blink owlishly, his pupils slow to react to the light. His body felt like it had been dismantled and stitched back together with rusted wire.
"The mission was simple. You failed to account for variables," Silva continued, his voice devoid of sympathy. He shook his head slowly. "I’m afraid that once you recover, you’ll undergo an intensive round of torture training to recalibrate your senses. You’ve grown soft."
Illumi’s heart sank. He was exhausted, his nerves already raw, and the thought of the electric chairs and whips felt like a mountain he couldn't climb. But he kept his face a perfect, empty mask.
"Your mother and I worried sick when Gotoh found you pathetically passed out in the doorway," Silva said, rising from his chair. "You made a complete mess of the entrance."
Illumi’s naturally wide gaze followed his father’s movements, tracking the powerhouse of a man. "I'll do better," he said, the words sounding robotic, practiced since childhood.
Silva handed him a glass of water. He chose to ignore the way his son’s fingers trembled as they wrapped around the glass—a sign of strain that would usually warrant a beating, but for now, it was merely noted.
"I expect nothing less of you, Illumi," Silva rumbled, his blue eyes piercing into Illumi’s void-like sockets. "Do not disgrace the family name again."
Illumi could only nod. Silva held the stare for a beat longer, searching for a flicker of weakness, before he sighed and looked away. Even if Illumi was completely drugged and barely lucid, he would never win a staring contest against Illumi.
It always creeped the older out. Maybe that’s what made his son so unsettling.
"Check your phone. Your schedule is already updated, and your pending missions are backlogged. Recover quickly. We have no use for a useless tool."
Silva didn’t bother turning around to face this disappointment of a son. The door shut with a final, heavy thud.
Alone in the silence, Illumi reached for his phone, his mind racing. The mission had been easy. Had that clown orchestrated the entire ambush just to play hero? He opened his messages and saw a notification from an unknown sender. He clicked it.
Unknown-
I hope you’re all better now~ ♡
I’m Hisoka. Hisoka Morow ⭐️—_—💧
Illumi immediately recognized the obnoxious, erratic energy of the text. Hisoka. The man from the rain. He felt a phantom sting in his shoulder and a sour taste in his mouth. He turned the phone off and grimaced as he tried to shift his legs. He wouldn't answer. He didn't need a "friend," and he certainly didn't need whatever Hisoka was offering.
Weeks passed. The torture training had been as grueling as promised, leaving Illumi even more withdrawn, his aura sharper and colder than before.
In a high-end hotel miles away, Hisoka was lounging on a velvet sofa, shuffling a deck of cards with hypnotic speed. His phone chimed. He glanced at the screen, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.
Unknown-
Are you available?
Hisoka’s fingers blurred across the screen as he began to type his reply. The fruit was far more interesting when it reached out on its own.