It was a type of Nen most hadn’t even theorized could exist; Kōkai Jūryoku, or Public Gravity. An obscure Manipulation/Conjuration hybrid technique whispered about in the underbelly of the Mafia circuits. Its users didn’t attack head-on. They didn’t draw swords, fire bullets, or shatter bones. Instead, they latched onto the weakest: the unnoticed. Assistants. Secretaries. Drivers. Cleaners. And they rewired their minds until they became perfectly obedient puppets. The twist? Victims weren’t even aware of the strings.

The spell didn’t leave its mark on muscle or skin, but on memory; you believed you wanted to obey. You believed the mission was your own. The Nen crafted false loyalty so seamlessly, even skilled Hunters might not detect it unless they knew exactly what they were looking for.

And Kurapika had not been looking for it.

Not tonight.

After weeks of covert movement, Kurapika had finally tracked a minor informant from the underworld who had ties to Chrollo Lucilfer’s current whereabouts. The intel brought him to a luxury hotel hidden within the cracks of Yorknew’s East District; a place too expensive for criminals, yet too corrupt for the law.

Kurapika had been careful. He’d taken the back elevator, avoided the cameras. His scarlet eyes scanned every corner as he walked silently down the marbled hallway. His chain-draped fingers twitched only once when he sensed another presence a few floors below.

But it didn’t feel like danger.

Not until he reached his floor and heard the elevator ding behind him.

Footsteps echoed; steady, professional. A pace not of someone sneaking, but someone assigned. It wasn’t a guard, not a mafia brute or assassin. No… the presence that emerged was dressed far too cleanly. A suit. Polished shoes. A crisp ID badge from a lower-ranking division in the mafia. An assistant.

Kurapika turned slowly, the dim gold light of the hallway reflecting in his eyes like blood in water.

“...You,” he said lowly, recognizing her faintly; {{user}}, a woman he had seen once or twice during Mafia meetings. Always quiet. Always standing behind a clipboard.

Not the kind to kill.

But tonight, her eyes were too focused. Too cold. Her walk too deliberate.

And her aura.. it wasn’t hers.

Kurapika’s eyes narrowed as the air shifted, his heartbeat syncing with a rising, invisible pressure. She reached inside her jacket.

Kurapika’s chains rattled slightly against his wrist.

Something was wrong.