For all the killings, all the murders that add another chain-link to their souls; there are the rare moments when the Zoldyck children are human, despite the teachings of their blood.

WARNING - this is gonna be around five chapters I hope ? the updates are gonna be a little sporadic and it's going to detail some gruesome topics, particularly in this chapter. so if you're particularly squeamish about blood and death, I suggest you skip the chapters that have a warning at the top. Also, the chapters may be a little short; depending on each topic.

ILLUMI ZOLDYCK

Illumi does not talk of his first murder. Not out of forgetting or because it was far too pleasurable for his family to comprehend; but out of shame. Childish shame, rattled by the night's events and now, years from when the knife first sliced through tender skin, he still feels the worm of it in his chest.

Mafia families were tense creatures, coiled of far too many bad deeds to count and soon, an execution order had been placed on the head of the Musawji family; a dealing group of weapons arms and lives. Silva had been the first request, but curiosity and wonderment had found his throat, curled claws into the bend of his spine and told him to pick Illumi by the collar and drag him towards Katagawra Province, where homes were built on the bones of the traitorous.

Here, they waited. Between dragonfly flowers - originated from east gorteau; attracts berryflies and the like - and hastily shedded hedges, did they lie in wait. Illumi stuttered between the leaves, eyes glancing through the breathless gaps the wind granted him whilst Silva laid in stone; a mausoleum of calmness with folded arms to his ribcage. As his son jittered, tumbled between how to calm his breaths to eleven per minute and to find footing between dirt, he opened one eye, face an immovable piece of rock.

"You are my son," body a caught nerve, Illumi stops; straightens with a violin string for a spine in his father's presence. He had forgotten himself in front of the head of the Zoldyck family. Such a disgrace he has already committed, a sour taste on his tongue at his lack of control. "You will do the job to the highest standard; when the lights are no longer in use, you shall infiltrate through the back window. Kill them and leave no mess. You have twenty minutes."

"Of course, Father."

Killing a man was easy. One moment, the window was closed with no demon at the side of his bed; the next, Illumi pressed the heel of his Ben's knife to his chin, half in-thought about the sleeping male. He was not young; age had certainly caught him by the throat, pulled laugh-lines around his mouth and eyes. Stomach a billowing of skin, fingers long but curled into fists by his side. Even in sleep, he was ready to fight. He slaughtered him easily.

But the wife - a young thing, hardly even twenty five with youthful features - immediately awoke, body lurching like she'd been brought from a watery death. but this was an entirely new death. No noise escaped her as the knife drove through her throat. Little blood splattered across her final sleepwear.

The Musawji family has two heads of the house, Eli Musawji was the latter head and should be downstairs, possibly with his wife, Canamara. Illumi makes no noise; static has been drizzled into his toes since birth threw him between gnarled hands and now, as he navigates the labyrinth of this family home turned sarcophagus, he is merely a shadow of a demon's tooth.

When he reaches one of their living room's, it is littered with books. They pile high like pillars of this home into the corners, find a crook beside the fireplace and amongst the armchair in the corner. Something stirs in him, a vague want as fingers press over the fragile spines. these books have been opened and closed so many times; he wonders how rigid his own spine is compared to theirs.

Canamara is curled, impossibly small with a shawl around jutted out-shoulder blades, sleep making her chest lift higher and lower is even breaths. She reminds him of Grandmother in this moment; how frail she looks. but this woman is married to the head of a mafia family - in all her years, she has possibly seen more blood than Illumi stain her clothes. But the child - and still, only a child - banishes these thoughts, these similarities to grandmother, who could kill Silva and maim Kikyo if she so wanted it, and shoved the knife through muscle, bone and finally, the heart of the old woman.

Beside her, Eli slept soundly, head back and mouth a wide cavern for the loudest rattle of noise to escape that Illumi vaguely believed he wouldn't have had to disguise his footsteps if he'd known of this. And he does not stir, makes no attempt to check on the loss of life by his side - possibly because he has become so used to death, he sleeps with it now. For this, Illumi takes his time, even when he wakes and a gag is shoved between his teeth.

This is what he deserves.
This is what the client asked for.
This is the death he made for himself.
It's his own fault.

When he is finished carving into the man, he lowers the knife. Let's it clatter before he has any sense to check if life still resides within this abode. Chest heaves, the blood drips along the hallowed curve of his cheek as he stares over the corpses, joined together by the thin shawl in death. Little blood coats them - there is no mess Father.

"Grandpa?"

For once, strange fear locks his skeleton into a flinch, into a bending of shock when the voice speaks. Head snaps to the side, a door spills gold into a square on the floor, only interrupted by a small figure. It's a boy, no much younger than Illumi himself in a pair of thick pajamas, detailing superheroes in a bright sky blue. his hair is curly, full of youthful bendings that Illumi's own had never seemed to grow. The boy's chubby fingers are curled into a book, pages falling from fingers grasp as it loosens.

Their gaze locks, black on bright green but...there is no wailing. No anger or tears for the boy when he steps into the room, gazes over his family's corpses. Somehow, marble becomes him as his jaw sets, brow lowers with a determined quiver of his body. When Illumi meets his eyes once again, the bright green of sleep unhindered has darkened, has finally dulled. Illumi doesn't know if it is because a candle went out somewhere in the room.

"Did you do this?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I was paid." He doesn't say we, does not out the location of his Father. Eleven minutes have passed; he needs to finish.

The boy's head cocks, strange, morbid curiosity framing his youthful face. "What's your name?"

"I-Illumi."

"I'm Joseff. Will you kill me too?"

Illumi stutters. Already, he has carved out a fatal mistake, has released his name to a boy only because he was around his age, someone he could relate too. But there isn't an accusation in this boy's mouth when he lowers his book besides the knife and stands before Illumi; and here, is where he see's the soldier in him. The eight year old born from bullet casings, so used to death already that his own family dying doesn't deter him in his stride.

To Illumi, they are more alike than he wants them to be.

"Yes."

"Okay," he says, and Joseff climbs between his grandparents so easily, picks away the hanging fingertips and his grandfather's arm, littered with wounds that won't stop bleeding until the body slows the organs thumping, and settles there. between his family, dead as they may be, he almost looks content. "Could it be quick? I've seen what father does and they don't seem to like it when it's slow."

"I suppose," offers Illumi, empty eyes blinking in confusion at how Joseff smiles, reaches his lips to frame a crescent moon and instead of picking up the knife, Illumi borrows a trick from his father. his hand sharpens, becomes a demon's vessel with sharp nails and protruding veins. He doesn't remove his gaze from Joseff as he drives it through his heart.

Then, when he removes his hand from Joseff's cooling body, he sobs.

He welcomes the ghosts he has slaughtered when he meets his father, knows that these lives weren't his to take but still, when his Father pats his head and they leave, he cannot help but feel accomplished. But shame, for shedding tears over bodies he did not know, over a boy he had only known the name of, is still a mistress that walks in time with his shadow.

But the worst part, of his first kill, is when he returns home without wiping the blood and Mike licks his face, banishing of his sins for at least one more day.