Chapter Text
PART I
There is no doubt in Illumi’s mind that he shouldn’t be staring at the faded pink pill resting in his left hand, nor at the sloshing white wine in his right—chilled, lightly golden, its condensation slipping down the stemmed glass and pooling at his knuckles. Edged by desperation, he teeters on the cliff of unease, stomach lurching in anticipation of the welcome plunge into oblivion’s haze.
He’d rummaged through the smart fridge—but only after silencing its wave of programmed reminders—past limp garlic, shriveled lemon wedges, half-eaten sandwiches, expired health shots, and cracked cans of energy drinks. In the back, behind the glow of wilting kale, was the bottle. He’d left it there months ago for a rainy day.
It probably isn’t raining. He refuses to check. But with the pounding behind his eyes and the pressure blooming in his skull like footsteps on wet pavement, it could be.
Illumi glances up through the kitchen window. His 'view'—if it can be called that—is the beige flank of the neighboring building. No sky. No city. Just a blank vertical slab housing budget med spas and cosmetic surgery clinics that boast discounts and no visible certifications. Directly across, a garish ad stretches across a wide window: SIZE MATTERS, the text blares, all caps over a smiling patient whose joy seems both surgically enhanced and utterly misplaced.
Illumi stares until the letters blur. Then, his gaze slides off the glass and meets his own reflection.
His hair, drawn back earlier in a loose knot, has slipped out to frame his face in dark uneven strands. The sharp crease between his brows is deeper than usual. His shirt is undone. His tie hangs like an afterthought. The shadows beneath his eyes settle in like bruises.
Without ceremony, Illumi brings the Ambien tablet to his tongue—chalky, bitter—and lifts the wine glass in a mock toast to his own reflection before tipping his head back. Half the glass vanishes in one clean swallow. The rest follows with a soft clink of glass against teeth.
He hadn’t poured much—moderation, unlike the more unruly Zoldycks, remains one of his surviving virtues. A trait entirely absent in the family’s drug enterprise, where cutting corners and exploiting loopholes to maximize profit is the standard. Monopoly is the goal, always.
Though Illumi sits alone—separated from his kin in his carefully constructed role as assistant district attorney—the pressure never lets up. He’s constantly being pushed to ascend—to wield power. His flawless litigation record isn’t met with praise or recognition, but with reminders: this is just a stepping stone. The endgame is district attorney. Not for justice, not for prestige—but so the Zoldycks can further their reach, embed deeper, operate with greater impunity.
And Illumi will get there. In time. On his terms.
Still, the deadline was made explicit. His father’s order barked into existence: rise to the position by thirty.
As curated as his life may be—minimalism, order, a nameplate office and an enviable win ratio—Illumi knows better than to deceive himself. The structure holds, but the interior has hollowed out. These small rituals are all that cushion him against the slow, soft collapse of time.
He glances at the black acrylic calendar tacked to the wall. His birthday sits unmarked, indistinguishable from the tidy, blank squares around it, indicating the end of the month—a quiet obituary for his twenties. No plans. No celebration. Just a date, waiting to expire. With a long, shallow sigh, Illumi settles into the suede couch—cream-colored, too expensive for comfort but still pleasantly soft. He spreads his sore legs, a dull ache gnawing at his knees, and reaches for the remote with a mechanical ease.
There’s something sacred about the narrow window between swallowing the Ambien and the moment it claims him completely. In that liminal stretch of time, Illumi exists on the threshold—not fully awake, not yet unconscious. Zolpidem coils through his brain like smoke through empty hallways, silencing neurons that once flickered with urgency. Thought loses sequence. Emotion detaches from meaning. His prefrontal cortex begins to dim like a dying light behind his eyes.
The sharpness of waking thought dulls into suggestion. Memories drift loose from chronology. Sensory data blends and loops—it’s chemical erasure. Intent dissolves. Only reaction remains. Illumi feels his awareness stretch thin—like skin pulled over fog. His body becomes foreign—obedient but distant—like a machine with no operator. On particularly bad days, when his mind feels static-blurred and his focus fractures like cheap glass, Illumi allows himself this combination. A calculated dosage of surrender.
The television flickers. A soft, slow voice drones through the speakers—likely a nature documentary, judging by the low hum and patient cadence. His vision begins to warp. The animals onscreen swell in contrast, bright and vivid, while the background dissolves into smeared jungle greens and yellows. Their movements feel close, urgent. He hears their breath. Their cries. The soft squelch of earth under paw. The hiss of something coiled just out of frame.
The room smells damp. Overgrown. Jungle rot and wet leaves and primal sweat. Illumi can almost feel his fingers brush against slick bark, thick vines, and moss-coated stone. His limbs twitch. His head tilts back. The sofa absorbs him like quicksand. He feels heavy and untethered, like he’s floating just inches below the surface of himself.
Each blink is a shutter flash. A new image, a new scene. But the cuts come slower now—a beat, then another. Time stretches and folds. He doesn’t want to leave the forest. Not yet. The chaos feels ordered. Life and death humming in balance.
But the television glitches. The scent fades. The sterile static of the monitor creeps back in, unwelcome and loud. With one last breath—damp leaves and blood-warm air—Illumi slips under.
∘ ∘ ∘
As much as Illumi insists he’s a morning person, the facade falls apart the moment he wakes—often before the sun has even begun its ascent, all in the name of aligning his routine with work hours. He’s told himself for years that he likes it. Tried to will belief into existence through repetition. Pretended it was a discipline he chose. But it isn’t.
Or maybe he just doesn’t have the mental fortitude to enjoy misery the way others claim to.
The alarm is merciless. Every morning, it blares into the silence and drags him out of sleep, his pulse spiking like he’s under attack. It’s a terrible way to begin a day—but Illumi considers it a badge of discipline. Over time, he’s escalated his tactics. Phone alarm? Too easy to ignore. He upgraded to a wall plug-in, then maxed out the volume. Still, not enough. He’d scattered leftover Legos from Killua’s childhood near the alarm—sharp little landmines meant to jolt him awake the moment his feet hit the floor.
After months of trial and error, he perfected his system: a tablet alarm that loops the most unbearable sound he’s ever heard, programmed not to stop until he enters his passcode. It demands alertness. Forces him to think—too conscious to slip back into sleep.
This morning is no different.
He opens his eyes to pitch-black stillness—no memory of falling asleep, no dreams, just the shriek of the alarm slicing through his head. Every thought collapses into a single objective: turn it off.
He fumbles blindly across the nightstand. His fingers slam into the tablet, knocking it sideways before catching it on instinct. The screen blares to life—too bright, too close. The vibration is violent now, buzzing straight through his palm, rattling up his wrist.
The alarm screams in his ear, looping on a pitch designed to fray nerves. His pulse spikes. He squints at the screen.
His brain stalls. After a beat, he regains his bearings and punches in the code. He hits submit.
The sound cuts out instantly. The silence presses in. He exhales, chest tight, head foggy, but the irritation lingers—low-level, constant, like background noise.
He pads to the bathroom barefoot, routine already underway. Brushes his teeth. Runs a hand through his hair, only for strands to fall over his mouth and into the foam. Sticky. He yanks it back and twists it into a tight bun at the nape of his neck.
He doesn’t bother turning on the lights. Everything operates on muscle memory now. In the closet, his fingers glide over drawer handles until they land where they should: compression shirt from the top drawer, athletic shorts from the one beneath it.
Illumi lets his body drift into autopilot, his legs carrying him out of the hall and into the elevator, down to the ground floor where the in-complex gym sits in permanent artificial light. The beep of his key card scanning at the locked door pulls him briefly into the present. He sets his water bottle on the floor, unrolls a mat, and pops in his earbuds, queuing up a soft melodic instrumental.
The music hums through his skull—calm, impersonal—as he stretches out. Arms raised overhead, legs straining, knees bending with careful calculation. He used to be more flexible, but age has welcomed him with stiff limbs, tight joints, and the constant threat of cramping.
He typically prioritizes cardio, but lately he’s been integrating the leg curl machine after researching its targeted effects. He watches the tension ripple through his thighs, flexing and contracting beneath the steady pull of weight. Then, without pause, he transitions into incline sprints—heat coiling up his spine, arms and legs pumping in lockstep, chasing stillness through motion.
It feels endless—a blur of breath, speed, and rhythm—until his phone alarm chimes, severing the trance. Thirty minutes, exactly.
Illumi revels in the resounding silence that settles over his early mornings as he ascends back to his apartment. He slips out of his damp clothes and steps into the shower, letting the first spray of ice-cold water hit him like a jolt to the nervous system. Sweat and fatigue slide off his skin and spiral down the drain.
Illumi takes his appearance seriously. He won’t leave his home unless he’s properly assembled—every strand of hair in place, every seam pressed, every detail accounted for. He rotates outfits meticulously, avoiding repeats within a two-week cycle.
Today, he selects a dark brown two-piece from his closet—a wool button-up and tailored slacks, soft against his skin and cut to flatter his frame. At the vanity, he fastens a silver chain around his neck, adds a matching bracelet, and clasps on the silver Rolex his father gifted him for graduating from law school.
His skincare routine is swift but precise: serum rubbed into his cheeks and jaw, cologne misted along his collarbone and wrists. Blow-drying his hair is always an ordeal, so he focuses on the nape, running heat and a comb through the roots before working castor oil through the rest.
The front still slightly damp, he brushes it back tightly, gathering the top section into a neat bun while letting the rest fall loose down his back. He smooths his trimmed brows with a fingertip, dabs balm on his lips, and studies himself in the mirror.
He looks like he should. Presentable.
On the kitchen counter, Illumi pops open his monthly pill organizer and shakes out the pre-sorted stack for the day. He always finds it mildly amusing that the antidepressant—the one meant to alter his brain chemistry—is the smallest of them all, while the magnesium tablet is nearly the size of his fingertip.
He swallows them in one go with a sip of water, then stoops to pick up the ceramic bowl resting by his feet. He pours in dry cat food, then—impulsively—retrieves the unfinished sandwich from the day before, tearing up the grilled chicken and sprinkling it on top.
With quiet deliberation, he turns the knob to his office door and eases it open. Sage is waiting by his desk chair. Her small cage door is ajar, her cushion dented where she’s slept. Illumi has been slowly introducing her to the apartment, first confining her to the cage, then to his office. In another week, he’ll test how she handles the open living area.
He crouches and places the bowl near his feet, coaxing her forward with a soft murmur. She blinks her pale green eyes, lifts her nose, and pads over on delicate black paws. She begins nibbling, immediately going for the chicken.
Illumi lets out a quiet chuckle. When she looks up at him again, he strokes her head gently, scratching behind her ears until they twitch. She purrs, leaning into his hand. His chest tightens.
He lingers, savoring the moment, then taps the bowl to nudge her toward the remaining dry food. On a whim—though he’d rationalize it as a calculated effort to improve his socialization—he decided he wanted a pet. A cat always made sense to him. He’d grown up with a large dog, but their loyalty always felt like demand. Cats offer a quieter company.
He’d done the research. Read the studies linking domesticated animals and improved mental health. Visited a local rescue. And there, in the far corner of a cage, was a kitten hiding her face when he pressed a hand to the glass. That was it. He’d never seen anything cuter.
After she finishes eating, Illumi pulls the feather wand from his desk and drags it across the floor. She scurries after it, hopping up on her hind legs in clumsy pursuit of the green feather. When she’s tired, he pats her head once more, checks the litter box—still clean from last night—and grabs his briefcase from its hook near the door.
He rides the elevator down to the garage level, the soft hum of machinery lulling him into stillness. As expected, the Lexus chirps open when he approaches. He checks the gas tank and pulls out smoothly, just as his phone buzzes with a notification: his dry cleaning is ready.
The sharp, synthetic scent of Black Ice from the dangling air freshener floods the cabin. Illumi scrolls to the local radio station on his dashboard monitor and lets it play—a blend of weather forecasts and sports updates, the same structure every morning.
Outside, the scenery shifts from quiet residential streets to the sharper lines of downtown—boutique shops opening, storefronts being swept, joggers pacing sidewalks with phones strapped to their arms.
The host’s voice carries on, speculating about an anniversary event for a major Manhattan-based media company. The venue’s location is still a secret, though rumors suggest a high-rise terrace or penthouse. Elite socialites, as always, chase extravagance—but Illumi knows the truly wealthy never advertise.
He grew up in Mt. Vernon, in a modest home yet luxurious by New York standards—quiet, communal, clean. But he’d always known, even before the truth of his family’s business was laid bare, that it was a performance. As a boy, he used to press his ear against doors, hiding around corners, catching snippets of his father’s voice: wiring millions to various offshore accounts spoken with the same tone one might use to remind someone to buy milk or take out the trash.
“Will any celebrities make appearances? Neon Nostrade posted a pearlescent white Valentino dress—possibly teasing her attendance, given the event’s all-white dress code. Speculation’s been brewing all over social media. That and more after the break. We’ll be hearing from Hill’s public relations manager, right after this.”
The host’s voice cuts to static and DJ scratch effects before a syrupy pop song kicks in. That’s Illumi’s cue. He shuts it off. He’s just in time to slide into a vacant spot of street parking next to the dry cleaner. The engine dies. He dismisses a few work notifications about afternoon logistics.
The last warmth of summer brushes his skin, softened by a steady breeze. As he steps out, he watches the curb, careful not to scuff his Prada loafers on uneven concrete.
The soft jingle of the bell announces Illumi’s arrival. The woman behind the counter glances up, a phone pressed to her ear. She lifts a finger in acknowledgment and continues listening—something about stain treatments and fabric specifics.
Illumi stands a few feet from the counter, tapping his toe idly. The sharp scent of cleaning chemicals and the long rack of garments behind the desk are oddly comforting—especially when he spots his suits, neatly bagged, waiting to be claimed.
The woman vanishes behind the rack. Illumi hears the rustle of hangers, so he lets his eyes drift to the small television mounted in the corner. It’s muted, but the screen flashes bold block letters beneath the newscaster:
ZMC | BREAKING NEWS: SENECA NATION OF INDIANS ACCUSE GREED CONSERVANCY OF UNAUTHORIZED USE OF TRIBAL LANDS
He exhales sharply, a low grunt slipping out before he can stop it. The headline sends irritation skittering across his mind—the kind born of memory, not sympathy. He’d spent hours sorting through archaic, contradictory tribal land statutes while interning at a private firm during law school. Nightmarish legal terrain. He doesn’t envy whoever’s assigned to that case.
Thankfully, not his problem anymore.
“Morning! Ah, Illumi—sorry about the wait, had a customer on the line. My husband’s not in yet. Forgive me.”
She rifles through a stack of tickets, matches his to the corresponding hangers, and slips a plastic cover over the clothing. With practiced ease, she carries the bag to the front counter and hands it over.
“Here you go. Your card on file has already been charged, and you’ll receive a text shortly confirming pickup and outlining your receipt.”
Illumi grips the metal hanger, steadying the weight of the bag with his other hand to keep it from dragging.
“Sounds good. Have a nice day.”
“You as well!”
He gives a curt nod and a tight-lipped smile before returning to his car, carefully arranging the clothing on the backseat hook and pulling the hangers taut to avoid wrinkles during the drive.
As the car pulls back onto the road, Illumi lets his Bluetooth connect, cueing up a jazz playlist. Smooth saxophone threads through the cabin, accompanying the final leg of his commute into downtown—where the streets are more congested, the energy louder.
Men in tailored suits, likely headed to the financial district, flood the crosswalks. Young adults dart in and out of bodegas and corner stores, clutching bagels and iced coffees.
Illumi edges into the cramped parking lot behind his usual café and begins slipping into the last available space. His fingers tap the steering wheel in short, angry bursts as pedestrians continue to stroll in front of his car, ignoring his turn signal and creeping advance.
A sharp staccato from the saxophone cuts through his irritation. He exhales slowly. He needs his coffee.
And this morning, he’s especially looking forward to caffeine. He feels heavy—likely from last night’s indulgence and the slightly overzealous sprint routine at the gym. His core aches. His legs drag. A dull, lingering fatigue hums in his joints.
He glances at the time on his phone as he shuts the car door. A quarter to seven. Right on schedule.
Illumi walks with more intent, trying to shake off the lingering weight in his limbs. He brushes past a pair of passersby and offers a quiet thank-you to a patron holding the café door open behind them.
Thanks to its proximity to Tribeca, his café is almost always overrun with hipsters and ‘artists,’ each one inspecting the menu with excruciating care—as if they’re evaluating brushstrokes in a gallery instead of deciding between espresso and oat milk. To be fair, the baristas here do offer a limited rotation of coffee art. Still, Illumi loathes the long lines it creates—and outright detests the idle small talk this crowd always tries to initiate.
Today, the line isn’t bad. Just a handful of people ahead. He falls into place automatically, already certain of his order. While waiting, he adjusts his watch and smooths the cuff of his sleeve—a precise gesture interrupted by a sharp, minty-fruit aroma wafting toward him. He sniffs.
The woman in front of him tucks a wax pen into the sleeve of her violet knit sweatshirt, pulling forward a few strands of her teal-streaked wolfcut. A curl of vapor floats through the air.
He frowns. They’re always vaping.
With a quiet sigh, he presses a thumb between his brows and redirects his focus, using the downtime to mentally sketch out the day.
First: emails and administrative catch-up—filing a few trial extension requests.
Midday: a team debrief on the crime scene he’d responded to while on-call yesterday.
Afternoon: a follow-up meeting with the officers he’d accompanied.
A long day, certainly—but routine by now. Still, the pressure builds, a quiet knot forming at the thought of unfinished objectives.
Finally at the counter, the scent of fresh coffee beans hits him—rich, earthy, restorative—and reminds him why he remains loyal to this place. He exchanges brief pleasantries with the barista, then recites his order. Slowly. He’s learned from past encounters that speaking too quickly earns him furrowed brows and irritated requests to repeat himself.
“I’ll have a small latte. Vanilla sweet cream, light foam. Two shots of espresso. Caramel drizzle lining the cup.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
Illumi glances at the pastries in the glass case to his right—temptingly presented, thick with cream and jeweled with fruit. But he remembers the pre-made parfaits in the work fridge and decides against indulging.
“Yes.”
“That’ll be $6.42.”
He waits for the soft chime from his phone confirming the mobile payment, then steps aside toward the window. Arms folded across his chest, he leans into the narrow indentation in the wall and turns his gaze outward.
Traffic flows steadily—cars and taxis cutting through the morning. The café’s interior noise fades easily from his focus as he scans the street, catching small moments in the blur of movement. A young man on a video call, earbuds in and phone outstretched, bumps into nearly everyone in his path. An older woman, standing just outside a building, takes a long drag from a cigarette before grinding it out beneath her heel. A car pulls out of a tight parking spot without signaling and gets cut off—the driver in the other car responds with an aggressive honk and a raised middle finger.
Illumi watches it all unfold through the fingerprint-smudged glass—like background static with no signal.
“I have one small latte—vanilla sweet cream, two shots of espresso, with caramel drizzle!”
A barista calls out, lifting the cup and placing it on the counter before returning to the hiss of frothed milk.
Illumi straightens and steps forward, eager to leave what’s become a suffocatingly crowded storefront. Just as he reaches for the cup, his fingers bump against another hand reaching for the same drink.
“Oh.”
He pulls back.
The other hand—bronzed and smooth where his is pale—wraps around the cup anyway. Illumi’s gaze rises, trailing the movement until it meets the chest of a man nearly his height, then higher still to a face tilted in a teasing smile.
“Oh my. Were you planning to abduct my order?”
The voice is smooth. Mocking.
Illumi’s eyes flick to the man’s mouth—plush lips tinted red, smiling in a way that immediately irritates him.
The stranger is handsome. Annoyingly so.
Golden cat-like eyes, framed by winged liner. Manicured brows. A sharp jaw and high cheekbones that catch the light just so. Loose auburn curls fall across his forehead in a way that seems both effortless and deliberate.
Illumi can’t tell if the hair color is natural. He wants to dismiss him as a hipster—especially with the trio of gold lobe piercings glinting in each ear—but the businesswear complicates things: a cream cardigan buttoned over a crisp white shirt, brown slacks, and black block-heeled ankle boots.
He’s wearing expensive jewelry—a gold Van Cleef bracelet and matching necklace glimmering under the sun slicing through the window.
Illumi blinks. He’s… perplexed.
He narrows his eyes.
“Of course not. That was my exact order.”
The man gives him a long, almost generous once-over. Illumi drums his fingers against his thigh.
“You also ordered a latte with vanilla sweet cream, two shots of espresso, and caramel drizzle?”
Illumi gestures to himself—the only other person who approached the counter.
“Yes.”
The man gently sets the cup back on the counter, folding his hands over his chest.
“Funnily enough, I ordered the very same thing. So…” He gestures between them. “We’re at an impasse.”
Illumi peers over his shoulder. The line now stretches to the door and continues to grow. He doesn’t have time to get back in line. The stop would be wasted.
“What time did you arrive?”
The man chuckles—low and rich, his chest shifting with the sound.
“No clue. Who tracks time that closely? That’s obsessive.”
Illumi checks his phone. “I got here at 6:45.”
The man releases a soft, performative breath. “Scary.”
“But so exact,” he adds quickly, quirking a brow. “I do love a punctual man.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Good for you. So, how do we resolve this? I need to go.”
The man pouts—just slightly, enough to be ridiculous.
“Aw, right back to business.”
He taps his chin in thought, then smiles.
“Well, I’ll gladly surrender the cup… if you’ll humor me.”
“How?”
“Well, clearly we share good taste. Quite the sweet tooth, huh?”
Unfortunately. It had plagued him in his youth—cavities, breakouts—and now, apparently, flirtatious strangers.
“Bane of my existence.”
The man laughs again, this time with a breathier lilt. His eyes crinkle at the corners.
“That’s dramatic.”
Illumi shrugs, lips twitching before he can stop them. He meant it. But it did sound a little silly out loud.
“Here we are,” the man continues, “clearly hitting it off. You can take the coffee… if you’ll also take my number. To-go, of course.” He winks.
Illumi blinks.
The audacity is whiplash-inducing. Bold flirtation after barely a handful of sentences. The man maintains eye contact—unwavering, warm, insistent.
Illumi could take the number. He wouldn’t call. He doesn’t date. Never has, really. He’s kept to casual flings—early college peers, then the occasional hook-up via Grindr. But even those faded over the years. They never satisfied the fleeting urge that prompted them; more often, they left him vaguely irritated and highly uncomfortable—especially when forced to simulate a connection during and endure the polite small talk after.
Nothing deeper. No bandwidth for it. No real interest.
And this stranger—a stranger with good skin and better confidence—doesn’t change that. Whatever ‘spark’ this is, it’s circumstantial.
He could pretend. Take the number. Leave. Never follow up.
But that feels like a needless delay of the truth.
“I’ll have to refuse,” he says plainly. “I can’t, in good faith, accept your number knowing I have no intention of pursuing anything with you.”
The man fidgets with one of the small hoops in his ear, the third lobe ring swinging slightly.
“Or with anyone,” Illumi adds.
“I see.” He smiles anyway. “Never hurts to try.”
He looks down at the coffee, then meets Illumi’s eyes again with a grin that dimples his cheeks.
“Well, you caught me. I was always going to let the better-dressed man have it.”
He nudges the cup toward him, tapping the lid once with a manicured nail, then bats his mascaraed lashes in mock innocence.
“At least let me have your name?”
“Illumi.”
“Here you go, Illumi. You’re free to go.”
“I appreciate that, uh…”
“Hisoka.”
Illumi nods. “Hisoka.”
He pulls out his wallet and slides a ten under Hisoka’s palm, where it still rests near the counter.
“For your troubles. Good day.”
Illumi grabs the drink, turns on his heel, and heads for the door. He glances at the line—now spilling out onto the sidewalk—just as the customer at the counter begins rattling off a lengthy order from their phone. Figures.
Behind him, he hears Hisoka protesting that he didn’t need the money, but with that crowd forming, Illumi considers it a small price to pay.
He offers one final, nod over his shoulder—subtle but pointed—then pushes through the cluster of waiting patrons, holding the door open just long enough not to seem rude.
Outside, the sunlight washes over him, warm against his skin. The usual chaos of the street greets him: honking cars, chatter, the distant grind of roadwork.
He slips into his car and takes a long sip, flipping back the lid tab and testing the heat. It’s perfect—slightly cooled from the earlier delay. The drink is sweet and smooth, coating his tongue and spreading warmth through his chest.
That brief satisfaction sparks just enough energy to carry him forward as he press-starts the engine and carefully pulls out of the lot, headed a few blocks down to the District Attorney’s Office.
∘ ∘ ∘
“You’re late.”
Begrudgingly, Illumi tears his eyes away from his government-issued PC.
He’d initially been assigned an Acer—proof enough that the state wasn’t investing in its prosecutors. The machine felt like it was built from plastic, and ran like it was powered by spite. Most mornings, Illumi spent more time watching the spinning blue loading wheel than getting anything done.
When his father had asked about the job—the office, the resources, the tools—and learned about the PC situation, he’d gone on a tirade, unleashing a string of profanities aimed directly at the sitting mayor.
“I suppose I’ll have to handle this myself. Illumi, I’m going to let you go now and make a few calls.”
By November, a new mayor was elected. Not long after, the District Attorney’s Office received a fresh budget allocation—and a shipment of sleek new Mac desktops.
Illumi sets down his blue light glasses and peers up at Kurapika, who’s hovering at the edge of his monitor. 'Hovering' being generous—they’re roughly the same height.
Kurapika’s tone is light, but Illumi knows him well enough to hear the edge underneath. Neither of them take lateness lightly. Both are well known—formally diagnosed, even—as chronic workaholics. They usually arrive a full hour early, sometime between 7 and 7:20 a.m., and spend the morning in mutual silence, easing into their work with methodical focus. No small talk. No unnecessary pleasantries. Only work.
It’s an unspoken understanding Illumi has grown to appreciate. He’d misjudged Kurapika at first—the bright blond hair grazing his shoulders, his bangs covering most of his forehead, the soft cheeks and angular jaw. He wore rings, layered necklaces, a ruby always glinting somewhere.
Illumi had taken him for superficial—until that first handshake.
“Kurapika Kurta. Admin ADA,” he’d said plainly—before clamping Illumi’s hand in a bone-crushing grip that left no room for interpretation.
“Technically, I’m still early,” Illumi drawls, tabbing out of a half-drafted email to watch the screen saver loop—a crashing wave frozen on repeat.
Kurapika scoffs, gesturing back toward his own office—already organized, his printouts stacked, personal items in place. Then he points to Illumi’s desk: briefcase half-flung, completely bare otherwise.
“Don’t be obtuse.”
“Not by choice,” Illumi says, dryly. “Unforeseen circumstances delayed my routine.”
Kurapika offers a rare sympathetic look, fiddling absently with the gem on his ring.
“Have you eaten?”
“No time.”
Kurapika tuts disapprovingly and briskly exits Illumi’s office.
Illumi takes the reprieve to unload his briefcase and organize a drawer, wiping over and straightening his nameplate. Illumi Zoldyck | Executive Assistant District Attorney—coated almost entirely in a film of dust.
Kurapika returns a moment later, personal laptop under one arm and two plastic parfaits in hand. The yogurt, fruit, granola, and honey sit in clean layers. He sinks into the plush armchair across from Illumi’s desk, slides one parfait over, then opens his laptop.
Illumi unwraps the plastic spoon tucked into the container’s side and takes a spoonful—careful to gather each layer. It’s sweet on his tongue, the berries soft, though faintly tinged with onion. Probably thanks to Hanzo’s giant tub of French onion soup still rotting in the fridge.
“Thank you,” he says.
Kurapika hums in acknowledgment, white light from the screen highlighting the sharp planes of his face.
They work in silence for a while—Illumi clicking through emails. Case scheduling, plea deal notices, prosecutor memos, hearing reschedules. His responses are brisk: Noted. Will do. I’ll see you then.
Kurapika likely manages the same volume, but with more edge. He’s notorious for his precision—and his passive-aggressive flare: As I mentioned before… Refer to my earlier message. Appreciate the follow-up, but it was unnecessary. Illumi has seen Kite enter Kurapika’s office after threads like that, usually with a tight smile and a CC list six people deep—often the result of sparring with a smug officer or a self-important judge.
Kurapika’s brows draw together, his face tightening in irritation.
“NYCourts.gov giving you trouble?” Illumi asks, swallowing a bitter berry and reaching for a napkin.
“When is it not?” Kurapika mutters, tapping furiously at the trackpad. “This website's so old it probably predates the head bailiff at County Supreme.”
Illumi smothers a chuckle into his napkin. “Mm. I suppose a bailiff shouldn’t need a cane outside of the courtroom.”
“Decidedly not. Kite refused to file my complaint—said it was ‘impolite’ and ‘assumptive.’" Kurapika glances up, unimpressed. "Please. After that Vegas courtroom assault went viral? Here in New York, I once had a defendant lunge at me and flatten his own counsel. You think I’d be fine if someone who looks ready for assisted living limped into action?”
“Fair point. Safety should outweigh decorum,” Illumi muses. “But I’m sure the court’s dodging a wrongful termination suit. Ageism discrimination.”
Kurapika rolls his eyes.
“Is the e-filing system erroring again?” Illumi asks.
“Yeah. Keeps giving me a pop-up about formatting—I triple-checked everything.”
Kurapika leans back and presses the back of his hand to his forehead in mock agony.
“You should—”
“Call them, I know.” He stands, gathering his laptop and half-eaten parfait. “Though I’ll probably still be on hold by the time I retire.”
Illumi exhales through his nose and turns back to his monitor. “Let me know how it goes. I need to submit my trial extension requests before lunch, ideally.”
As light pours steadily through the window, Illumi remains fixed on his tasks, barely registering the figures of colleagues trickling in. The only interaction comes from a soft tap on the glass—Melody, bright-eyed and gentle, raises a hand in greeting and crinkles her eyes into a small smile. Illumi mirrors the gesture with a nod.
By the time his daily lunch alert pings, he’s already ahead of schedule. He resolved the e-filing issue by uploading the documents directly to the site, reopening them there, converting the format twice over, and resubmitting. Convoluted and illogical—but it works. Everyone says so. Hanzo even sent him a private message in their streamlining app expressing his gratitude.
Hanzo | 11:29 AM
Saved my fucking ass 🙏
Illumi responded with a thumbs-up.
Now chewing on a stale pastrami sandwich left over from last Friday’s office lunch, he gives his notes for the upcoming debrief one final review—then checks his phone. His notifications have cleared out; the messages, dwindled. Among the few unread, one stands out—his father’s, left unopened since the night it arrived.
Silva Zoldyck | 6:02 PM
Promotion?
All the rest are from the siblings group chat—aptly named Killua, Stop Leaving, thanks to his habit of rage-quitting over even the smallest dispute—where his brothers typically bicker about video games, movie plots, and business gossip. The latest is from Milluki:
Millu | 12:06 PM
Y is the ONLY playable female character in HFW not even that hot
Illumi mutes the thread again.
He balls up the sandwich wrapper and tosses it into the bin, along with the empty coffee cup he finished while drafting a memorandum. His eyes linger on the decorative detailing of the cup sleeve—and unbidden, the memory returns: long, manicured fingers wrapped around the same cup, glossy brown nails just brushing its curve before sliding it back to him.
That stranger—Hisoka. Bold. Unfiltered. So jarringly forward it had sent a chill down Illumi’s spine. He’d been thoroughly caught off guard.
Illumi could never tolerate someone like that in his actual life. Surely exhausting.
The rest of the workday moves in contradiction—slow in sensation, yet quick in passing. The logistics of his current case weigh heavily, but time slips as Illumi becomes absorbed in one objective after another. At the afternoon debriefing, he presents his observations from the Metropolitan Museum of Art crime scene—where three members of a suspected criminal syndicate, referred to as the Phantom Troupe, were apprehended after stealing more than a dozen artifacts and rendering museum guards unconscious with a rare, coma-inducing compound.
Mirandized at the time of arrest, the suspects invoked their right to remain silent with religious precision—not a single word spoken throughout booking. Kurapika, acting as the lead liaison on the case, had been assisting the NYPD in identifying patterns in their thefts, which ultimately allowed authorities to actually intercept this latest heist. Illumi noted identical black spider tattoos on the suspects: one sprawled across a bicep, another inked on the side of a neck, and the last across the torso—distinct markers of gang affiliation, and evidence pointing to an operation far more structured and hierarchical than a string of burglaries.
What Illumi can’t disclose—not without jeopardizing the family’s empire—is the personal stake: weeks earlier, the Troupe had hit a Zoldyck-run warehouse front in the Bronx. The site, masked as a standard packing and transport facility, had stored a lucrative cache of narcotics—cocaine, fentanyl, MDMA, prescription opioids—all stolen in the raid. The Zoldycks kept quiet, unwilling to draw attention to their operation. But what struck Illumi most was the method: the night shift guards had been found unconscious, unmarked except for a subtle injection site—rendered comatose by the same rare neurotoxic agent later used at the museum. The toxin wasn’t part of the Zoldyck supply; it’s unique to the Troupe’s tactics.
At the scene, Illumi theorized aloud, proposing analogues from rare poisonings in both historical and criminal precedent—ricin, dimethylmercury, tetrodotoxin—to encourage investigators to examine victims more carefully for puncture sites. If the police can trace its chemical origin, they’ll be one step closer to pinning down the Troupe’s supplier—and unraveling the entire operation. That, paired with the suspects' tight-lipped behavior and gang branding, opens the door to pursuing charges under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.
"I see no long-term merit in prosecuting these three individually," Illumi states during the debriefing, stepping toward the projector. "Yes, they were caught red-handed. But charging them separately means varied sentences and missed opportunities."
He clicks through a slide: rap sheets for Shizuku, Nobunaga, and Phinks. Long lists of priors: assault, weapons charges, public disturbances. Another slide appears—Shalnark, Machi, and Kortopi—with mild misdemeanors: light theft, software piracy, one petty fraud case each.
"These individuals operate under a shared purpose, with coordinated silence, iconography, and synchronized movements. They're not petty criminals—they're a cell. If we coordinate with NYPD to gather evidence of a criminal enterprise—through informants, sting operations, financial audits—we can indict the entire Troupe under Little RICO." He pauses. "That means heavier sentences, asset forfeiture, and no wiggle room."
Kurapika nods and swivels his laptop around to face the team. "I combed through their transaction history. Funds funneled through shell corporations, overseas transfers, and unusually high donations to pseudo-charities. It’s textbook laundering."
He zooms in on an open Excel sheet, rows upon rows of transaction logs highlighted in yellow. "There are clear patterns—sudden cash infusions that don’t align with any legitimate sources of income."
Melody sits upright, calm and poised. She taps a finger thoughtfully against her chin. Her loosely curled gray hair spills over her shoulders as she speaks, voice gentle yet deliberate.
"We’ll need Mito to start identifying and contacting potential witnesses. We should assess their willingness to testify to gauge their cooperation," she pauses, eyes scanning the room, "we’ll likely need to offer both protection and conditional immunity to coax them out of hiding."
Across the table, Kite twirls a ballpoint pen between his fingers before clearing his throat. Dressed in a blindingly white button-up, his complexion pale and ghostly beneath the fluorescents, he looks more spectral than human. The only color on him is the dark, purplish crescents under his eyes betraying a string of sleepless nights.
"This case has moving parts," he says, pen finally stilled between his fingers. "But every player in this machine will matter when we bring it to trial. Bring me everything—statements, timelines, financials. I’ve uploaded our preliminary evidence to the case file in our streamlining system. From here, I’ll start scaffolding the framework under Little RICO statutes and begin citing precedent."
He turns toward Illumi, gaze unreadable, pupils small against the stark whites of his eyes. "Illumi, I want you designated as the new point of contact with NYPD. Compile working theories, liaison with detectives, and document all investigatory angles."
"Understood," Illumi acknowledges. "Consider it handled."
Where Illumi should feel confident—perhaps even proud—about being appointed lead prosecutor on the case, all he feels is a gnawing anxiety. This indictment can’t fail. A successful RICO conviction against the Phantom Troupe is more than just another notch on his record—it’s a direct expectation from his father. Illumi has never truly disappointed him before. Not on something this high-stakes.
He tells himself that things always fall into place for his father. They always have. But being the one responsible for keeping those gears turning has chipped away at the myth of omnipotence Illumi once attached to the Zoldyck patriarch. Now he knows: one misstep, one error in strategy or timing, could send the whole family’s operation crashing down.
He always has to be on. Always vigilant. Always calculating five steps ahead—for the team, for the name.
Always.
∘ ∘ ∘
“Thank you for meeting with us today, Mr. Zoldyck,” states Officer Mori. “You’re already familiar with Officer Lee. This is Detective Rivera—he’s been assigned to coordinate intelligence on the Troupe’s structure and help strategize stings and cooperator flips. His background in the Gang Intelligence Division will be key.”
Rivera stands, chair scraping back, and offers Illumi a clammy handshake.
“A pleasure,” he says.
“Good to meet you,” Illumi replies flatly. “Just Illumi is fine.”
Rivera doesn’t release his grip quickly enough. “If I may,” he adds, “you’re the son of the CEO of ZTI Logistics, correct? I’ve worked a few cases where your father cooperated with us. Sharp man. Generous with surveillance footage, warehouse manifests, shipping logs. Really helped us make progress.”
The praise is syrupy. Familiar. And always a nuisance. People either approach Illumi with suspicion or admiration—never neutrality. Both are distractions. Both complicate his job.
“I’ll pass your kind words along,” Illumi says, curt enough to kill the conversation. Rivera catches the tone and clears his throat before taking his seat.
“Moving on,” Illumi continues evenly, “I spoke with my colleagues earlier today. We’re in the preliminary stages of organizing what we’ll need to pursue a full indictment of each Troupe member under New York’s Little RICO Act. As previously discussed—” he nods to Officer Lee “—we still need to secure additional evidence: forensics, witness interviews, and valid search warrants. Forensics should be ready soon, yes?”
“Likely within forty-eight hours,” Lee confirms. “It’s a challenge, considering the public setting. But we’re isolating latent prints, fibers, and possible entry vectors.”
“The suspects are all repeat offenders,” Rivera adds. “Their prints are in the system. Matching should help expedite ID.”
“We’re also prepping for an undercover op, based on your notes about the neurotoxic agent. The intel points to a supplier, but we’ll need a warrant. Which brings us to another lead…” Mori nods toward Rivera.
“We’ve been combing through their phone data,” Rivera explains, rubbing his jaw where stubble rasps against his fingers. “One name keeps showing up—Chrollo. It’s not just frequency. When I mentioned it during interrogation, even the stone-faced ones tensed up. He might be the head of the snake.”
Illumi listens, eyes fixed somewhere above their heads as he pieces together the implications. If Chrollo is a shot-caller, a leader, his mention could be a pressure point. An opportunity. But it also means escalation. More secrecy. More leverage needed. More danger.
“You said their phones pinged near a cluster of demolition sites in Brooklyn?”
“Correct. Lot of abandoned properties. High gang activity.”
Illumi nods slowly. “Start canvassing the area. Misdemeanor arrests can be leveraged—cut deals for cooperation. Low-level intel could open high-level access. Reinterview museum witnesses once they’ve had time to settle. People forget fast—but not everything. If Chrollo’s name is a crack in the wall, use it. See if they flinch again. As soon as you identify a viable location, I’ll prepare the paperwork for a warrant.”
He lowers his gaze, finally looking them each in the eye.
“How does that sound for a first push?”
Rivera swallows, then nods. “Logical. Strong plan.”
Mori is already typing notes into his phone, thumb flying.
“Copy and copy,” he confirms.
Illumi wraps up the meeting briskly, practically ushering the three men out of the room with clipped farewells. The mental strain of strategizing all day catches up with him fast, settling like weight on his shoulders. It’s just past five, and the office is empty—everyone gone, even Kite, who usually lingers later than most.
In his car, he tosses his briefcase onto the passenger seat and flips the visor mirror down. His reflection stares back, tired and smudged. There are faint indentations on his cheek from where he’d leaned too long into his palm, and red marks pressed into the bridge of his nose from his glasses. Too drained to cook—let alone grocery shop—he resolves to swing by the corner store near his apartment to pick up dinner.
Usually, the drive back is the worst part of Illumi’s day. That simmering post-work dissatisfaction, the residual anxiety—he can feel it in the churn of his gut, the sweat on his nape, the slow dissociation that clings to him like honey: thick, sticky, numbing. Driving becomes drifting. Thinking becomes blank space. Living feels more like watching.
But today, as he steps into the narrow corner store wedged between a smoke shop and a boba joint, something small shifts. He moves with intention.
He picks up two neatly wrapped chicken sandwiches and a bottle of green tea. At the register, he spots a cheap pack of laser pointers and adds one without hesitation. He already pictures how the night will unfold: sharing takeout with his cat on the office floor, chasing the sharp red light across the walls for Sage to pounce on. Afterward, an Ambien downed with ice-cold water from his fridge—the kind with perfect circular cubes—and the slow descent into sleep.
The disruption that morning didn’t ripple. The day smoothed itself out. Adequate—and for Illumi, that was optimal.