The moon hung low and blood-bright over the clearing, casting a crimson sheen across the forest floor. It mirrored the glow in Kurapika’s eyes—those scarlet irises burning with the fury of a clan lost to time. The body of Phantom Troupe member #11 lay motionless at his feet, the silence around it heavy and absolute.

Kurapika stood still, his breathing shallow, his expression unreadable. The battle was over. The rage, for now, had quieted.

But the cost lingered.

He closed his eyes, swaying slightly as the weight of Emperor Time drained what little strength he had left. Slowly, his eyes faded back to gray, and with trembling fingers, he reached for the tabard he’d discarded before the fight. He slipped it on with practiced grace, as if dressing himself in armor again—this time not for war, but for the world outside his vengeance.

Then—

A ringtone. Soft. Familiar. He glanced at the screen.

Your name.

And something in him shifted.

The tension in his shoulders eased. The storm behind his eyes softened. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips—rare, fleeting, but real.

He answered.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm, as if he hadn’t just spilled blood beneath a scarlet moon. “What’s wrong?”

His tone was gentle, affectionate—so different from the cold precision he’d wielded moments ago. As if you were the only tether keeping him from vanishing into the darkness he carried.

He stepped away from the corpse, away from the battlefield, and into the sound of your voice.

And for a moment, he wasn’t a weapon.

He was just Kurapika.

Yours.