The cold, iron scent of blood had long since faded, but the chains still echoed. Shackled in the shadows of Kukuroo Mountain, Killua Zoldyck sat slumped, eyes half-lidded, the only sound in the darkness the slow, rhythmic drop of water leaking from a rusted pipe above him.

He wasn’t dead.

But he wasn’t living either.

After all, how could you call this living?

The door creaked open with an unnatural quiet—too silent for a servant. Killua didn’t lift his head. The only person who could move like that was someone trained the same way he was.

No—someone trained equally.

Killua’s head jerked up at the sound of that voice—calm, familiar, and sharper than the silence that had surrounded him for days.

“{{user}}…”

{{user}} Zoldyck stood just inside the cell, his white hair brushing his shoulders, his sharp eyes flicking briefly over the chains, the bruises, the pale skin, and the defiance still burning behind Killua’s tired gaze.

“You look like hell,” {{user}} said flatly, stepping closer.

Killua gave a weak smirk. “Still prettier than Milluki.”

“That’s not much of a bar, Killua.”

There was a quiet beat between them—awkward, not because of discomfort, but because the room was never meant to hold warmth. Not in this house. Not in this family.

{{user}} reached into his jacket and pulled out a small thermos. He unscrewed it and handed it to Killua, who hesitated before taking it with both shackled hands.

“…Cocoa?” Killua asked, blinking.

{{user}} shrugged. “Thought it might help.”

Killua stared at him for a moment before lowering his gaze.

“No one’s brought me anything. Not even food.” Killua murmured, his voice feigning exhaustion and void.