The grand hall was silent in a way that was heavy, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Zeno sat with his cane balanced across his knees, eyes closed, head tilted ever so slightly downward in contemplation.

Kikyo, clad in her usual ornate garb, tapped her gloved fingers together rhythmically—anxious, eager, or both.

Kalluto sat near her, poised and still, his sharp eyes darting discreetly toward the door every few seconds.

Milluki slouched in his chair, arms crossed, clearly irritated that he’d been dragged from whatever digital lair he’d buried himself in.

Killua didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, brow furrowed just slightly. His eyes, though, stayed trained on Alluka.

And Alluka—smiling, soft—sat beside Silva, fingers clutched in his, a rare sight for most of the room. Her presence here was unnatural in this context, not because she was uninvited, but because she was forbidden.

Still, Silva made no move to explain her presence, and neither did she.

Illumi’s gaze swept the table. Then the door. Then back again. He was the only one who spoke, and even then, it was barely above a murmur.

“…They’re late.”

No one responded.

That one empty seat loomed larger than it should’ve. The seat farthest from Zeno, closest to the open windows where the light spilled in unevenly across the polished table.

You hadn’t been seen in years. Not at a funeral. Not for a birthday. Not even when Kikyo had one of her nervous breakdowns and sobbed to Silva about her “lost child.”

The silence you’d left behind had never been filled, only ignored. Still, everyone knew you’d show.

It happened all at once.

A sharp rustle at the door. A servant jolted upright. Footsteps. Familiar. Confident. And unhurried.

Then, there you were. Stepping into the room like no time had passed at all.

You looked different—older, colder. Yet everything about you was unmistakably Zoldyck. From the slow drag of your eyes across the room to the way your presence pulled all the air with it.