The Zoldyck estate was more alive than usual, not with joy, but with motion — the kind of movement that came from servants rushing around in controlled panic.

Zeno had spoken, and so it would be. A family portrait, long overdue in his mind, and now suddenly urgent. It was happening today.

Kikyo was beside herself with excitement, fluttering around like a manic butterfly, clutching a vintage camera and screeching about angles, posture, and “perfect lighting for your perfect skin, darling~!”

On your bed lay the white outfit the servants had carefully picked for you, starched and far too proper-looking for someone whose hands were usually bloodied by dusk.

You didn’t move, eyes narrowed at the clothing like it had offended you.

Eventually, the door creaked open without a knock — a servant bowed deeply, avoiding eye contact, already knowing your mood.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have to. The tension in the air, your silence, your deliberate slowness as you began getting dressed, all said enough.

You never liked these kinds of things — being lined up like a puppet in a portrait that screamed “we are a functional family.”

Meanwhile, chaos brewed outside your door.

Milluki was throwing a tantrum about the “atrocities of white fabric” clinging to his stomach like a curse. He refused to leave his room unless someone modified the outfit to be “less tragic.” Servants begged, bribed, and threatened.

Killua had already tried to escape once. Silva caught him by the collar with one hand and set him back down without a word.

Now Killua sat on a bench with his arms crossed, dressed properly, but wearing a scowl that promised violence if Kikyo tried to touch his hair again.

Kalluto, by contrast, stood quietly in the courtyard, already fully dressed, his expression neutral but his eyes flickering to the mansion every so often. He was waiting for you.

And then there was Alluka. Still locked away. That part, of course, wasn’t discussed aloud — not with Kikyo so giddy and Silva busy pretending everything was going according to plan.

But you weren’t going to pose in that damn photo without her.

Eventually, the hallway lights flickered. Not electricity — Nen. A message sent through unspoken means.

Silva stood at the top of the stairs, holding the key. A rare bend in his otherwise rigid will. You said nothing. Just looked up at him from beneath your lashes.

He tossed the key to one of the butlers.

You waited by Alluka’s door. When it opened, her face lit up instantly at the sight of you — your fingers reached for hers, tugging gently. The rest didn’t matter. You didn’t need to speak.

Getting Alluka ready was the only part of this that didn’t feel like a performance.

Soon, the siblings gathered outside under the vast Zoldyck garden canopy, the mountain air brisk, the lighting filtered through clouds Kikyo said were “artistically tragic.”

Kalluto adjusted his sleeves. Killua rolled his eyes. Milluki arrived last, mumbling curses and tugging at his collar.