Killua sat alone in the woods, surrounded by the aftermath of his own storm—shattered trees, torn-up earth, and a silence so deep even the wind seemed afraid. No birds sang. No animals stirred. The forest itself recoiled from him.

He stared at his hands—claws still out, fingertips still trembling, faint sparks of electricity twitching along his skin. His breath was uneven, like it hurt to breathe.

Then, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps. {{user}}.

They knelt in front of him without a word, their expression unreadable, calm as ever. Tilting their head, they looked down at his hands—still sharp, still dangerous—and reached out.

Without hesitation, they took his hands in theirs.

Killua flinched. “What do you want?” he asked, voice rough and low, like it scraped against something raw inside him.

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. Instead, they said quietly, “You were always a violent creature.”

He shot them a look—confused, almost offended.

“But we never blamed you for any of that,” they added softly, squeezing his hands. Slowly, Killua’s fingers twitched, then relaxed, claws dulling back into skin.

“What…?” he began, unsure if it was a question or a protest.

“I mean, look at the way you were raised,” {{user}} said gently. “Trained. Conditioned. Shaped to be inhuman. How could anyone expect you to come out of that… normal?”

Their voice was silk, but not soft out of pity—soft out of knowing.

Killua stared at them. He always wore a mask—a fox pretending to be a dog, desperate to be loved, to be seen as something harmless. But {{user}}… they were the dove, the light thing in his life he thought would fly away the moment they saw his real self.

But they never flinched.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” Killua whispered, eyes burning, voice cracking at the edges. “I don’t know how to be good… but I want to be, I want to try.” killua added, his eyes draining and just tired

And for once, he let someone hold the monster without trying to hide it.