A/N: Hi there! Two months after Poisoned Amaryllis turned two years old, I'm back :D

To be fair with you, that chapter was written back in January or February I think, but I just didn't have time to 1. Coordinate it with the latest/future chapters and 2. Properly edit it to publish it. The reason why is just because I'm basically doing an internship at the moment soooo free time is a scarce resource.

… That and also I love Overwatch. I just found out that healing five people and murdering tanks with a pea gun is fun. Sooo I do that a lot :D

But I'm finally on vacation so that gives me time to write/publish stuff! And fuck up my sleep schedule too hahahaha.

Anyway, don't mind me. I'm sorry for the long delay, and a warm thank you to all those still reading this and encouraging me to keep writing.

Also, the lovely liam . airin (without the spaces) is currently translating Poisoned Amaryllis to Spanish for those interested! The story is called Amarilis Envenenada in Spanish so for anyone who wants to read the fic in Spanish and support, feel free to go show the lovely translator some love! (You can find the story in my favorite stories too)

Now without any further ado, feel free to dig in!

Replies to Guest reviews:

KitKat: Thank you so much for your review! I'm really glad you liked the chapter, and the fact that the fighting scene was your favorite really makes me happy! I'm always a bit worried about how I write action scenes so it's a relief you liked the scene :3 And thank you so much for your support ;A; *hugs*

Kiki: Here goes, the update you wished for ;D I hope you'll like this chapter!

Chapter 37: Sleeping Beauty

He stumbled on his own feet, crashing into the door with a brutal shock. Through the haze of his pain, he haphazardly reached for the doorknob, rattling it with a quivering hand until it gave away.

And then, he fell.

His heart hung in his chest for a terrifying second. He forgot who he was, why he existed, who he had dedicated his life to. All of it, gone.

He came to his sense when someone caught him. Flinching under his weight, but holding it nonetheless.

"Malzi?!" the individual started. The voice, Erik's voice, startled Malzi out of his dizziness. "Malzi, what the hell happened?" Erik demanded as he lay down Malzi's body on the floor.

In the dim light, Malzi saw the soft cerulean eyes scrutinizing him. "Call a medic," he said through gritted teeth.

"Don't bleed on my carpet," Erik hissed as he hurried to his phone, calmly asking for a medic to his team. Meanwhile, Malzi pressed the fabric he had torn from his shirt on his wound, the gunshot this fury of a girl had inflicted him. Anger pulsed in his vein at the thought of her. It pounded in his head. He thought of her neck between his fingers, so thin and delicate. He could have snapped it in a simple twist of his wrist, and she would have been gone.

But he hadn't.

Because of his own plans. His own doubts.

And that serpent had fucking shot him.

He clenched his fist, nails digging in his palms. His eyes never left the red mess near his stomach, the bloodied fabric stopping the hemorrhage. Wrath boiled in every fiber of his being—he felt its fire in his head and its frost in his core.

She had dared. And now he was fucking bleeding in his friend's office. Now he had to concoct a sweet little lie to justify his absence from his daily responsibilities. Now he had to stall their own secret mission to recover.

All because of one girl.

The medic arrived shortly enough. She worked fast, never once asking why her patient was bleeding on her boss's carpet, or how he had gotten shot, or why he smelled like nothing a living person should smell like. He appreciated her discretion. Her nimble, dexterous fingers were a cold press on his sore anger.

It allowed him to think better. To focus.

And to realize the real reason he was angry wasn't the wound, or the fight, or the failure, or even the girl herself.

It was to watch her take what was rightfully his.

Sunday, June 7th

10:02 A.M.

Being bedridden was never fun.

But being bedridden while some smoke-obsessed human hazard she had shot roamed free, with freshly dug hints from the depths of a corpse's stomach, new allies more than willing to wreak havoc, and an almost-boyfriend so worried sick he had spent three days by her side admonishing her for the slightest movement… yeah, definitely no fun.

"At least let me work on something…"

Killua flipped through the documents in the binder he was holding, not sparing her a glance. "Did you know Erik owned one of the ice-cream shops in the center town? The guy's got a sweet tooth."

Hana pouted, sighing deliberately loud to make a point. "I'm boreeeed. I wanna work on something," she demanded, as a toddler would demand sweets in the candy aisle of a supermarket

Killua finally looked at her. He closed the binder. And just like the parent of the said toddler, he remained strict. "Hana, you were shot. You need to rest."

"My body can rest while my brain works," she argued.

"You need your energy to recover."

"But—"

"I'm gonna call Leorio if you keep insisting."

She shuddered at the mere thought. Leorio, for all his good-mannered jokes and his cheery mood, was one hell of a determined man. She vaguely remembered him ordering Killua to calm down through her half-consciousness, but she distinctly remembered Killua effectively shutting up after that. Leorio could do that.

She didn't want Leorio to scold her for doing what she knew was careless. Because she most definitely needed the rest. Every slight movement hurt like a bitch and she could barely sit in a decent position without cursing this smoke asshole and all his ancestors for putting her in that state. The one good thing that came out of these three days was learning how colorful her vocabulary could be.

So, with nothing more to argue and nothing reasonable to say, she kept sulking.

Killua looked at her for a moment, then he stood up and moved his chair near her bed. "I'm here."

The words, simple as they were, did their magic. She stopped sulking—but didn't look at him, she still had a point to make.

"Never knew resting would be so hard," she sighed, resigning herself. She wriggled on the bed, wincing in pain as she searched for a more comfortable position. The wound pulsed on her abdomen, screaming with every effort. Sometimes it made her head turn.

Killua put the binder on the bedside table and jumped to his feet to help her. Then, before sitting back, he brushed her hair away from her forehead. "I know the feeling. Remember when I inhaled his smoke and you forbade me from work for an entire day?"

"..."

"Yeah, exactly. And I cooperated."

"Fine. But what you had was worse than what I have."

"That's debatable."

"No, it's not. I've been shot before; this isn't a foreign pain."

He cocked an eyebrow. "I nearly died before. More than once. For sure it didn't make the curse easier on me."

She frowned, rummaging through her brain to find any half-decent excuse to convince Killua. "I stopped the bullet with my abs," she insisted—forgoing the mention of the nen fortifying her abdomen. Any nen user knew how to fortify their muscles to minimize damage—but perhaps if she didn't mention it, Killua would forget this basic fact and realize how badass she was and let her work… right? "Someone who can do that can probably also handle a little brain-storming, right?"

"The only thing you achieved by doing that was freaking out Leorio."

"And, well, stopping the bullet, no?" she insisted.

"Sure. But that's irrelevant, right?" he said, looking at her pointedly.

And she started sulking again. She turned her head away from Killua's amused gaze, puffing her cheeks and furrowing her brows. Which probably didn't make her look very intimidating, but that was only a small detail.

Minutes passed, during which she silently waited for Killua to tease her, or yield, or say anything. But he seemed happy with the newfound silence—and mostly with her unspoken resilience—so Hana eyed him from the corner of her eyes, her pout morphing into boredom. She narrowed her eyes. "What if I manage to convince Leorio, then?"

Killua blinked, then burst out laughing. "I'd like to see you try," he said when his laughter faded. His expression was pure, unabashed victory. "You think you can convince Leorio if you didn't convince me?"

Hana puffed her cheeks. "I think I can! I'm sure I can!"

"Wow, such confidence," Killua teased, bending down to her level. "Let's make this a bet. If I win and Leorio doesn't let you work, you're getting uninterrupted rest for one more week. How does that sound?"

She shuddered at the thought. For sure Killua would make her stay in bed and rest while Smokey pranced in the city collecting souls like those little kids on a Halloween night who went trick-or-treating. "Fine. But if I win, I get to work on the case whether you want it or not. And you're baking me a cake."

Killua cocked an eyebrow. "That's random." He then smirked, eyeing her with what almost felt like a victory. "How about I bake that cake anyway? To celebrate you spending one more week resting. Without any work."

She resisted the urge to grin. "We'll see about that. I will feast on your loss, Killua Zoaldyeck."

He gave her his hand. "Deal?"

She took it. "Deal. Let Leorio decide our fates."

"Work? From bed? Sure. As long as you don't gesticulate you're fine to work now."

Killua had lost. He had lost so miserably he could barely form a sentence. "You—you're letting her work?"

"Yeah, the wound's healing well. It's safe to do some work, as long as you eat and sleep at a correct pace." He glanced at Killua. "I'm counting on you to make sure she doesn't skip meals and stay up too late. Also, keep the work to a minimum."

Killua opened his mouth, then closed it and glared at Hana—who wasn't done grinning. "Don't you think it's still too early? She needs to rest. To do things like… like not working."

"Who's the doctor here, Killua?" Leorio simply asked, never looking away from Hana's wound.

"Yeah, who's the doctor here?" Hana repeated, still sporting that insufferable smile.

Leorio didn't comment further. Instead, he examined Hana's abdomen. "You're healing at a monster pace. Either I'm a genius doctor or your body's a freak. I lean more toward the first option."

Hana flashed a victorious smile toward Killua before turning back to Leorio. "The nen therapies you prescribed me help a lot," she admitted. "I had no idea nen could be used like that."

Leorio fished in his briefcase for gauze and wetted it with physiological saline. "Nen has always had regenerative properties. Nen healers just grasp these natural properties and enhance them." He dabbed the wound with the gauze. Hana winced slightly. "Most people are unaware that using nen actually accelerates their healing rates. I'm just exploiting that. Powerful nen users heal at incredible speed when they know how to use their aura. They can live up to three times the maximum life expectancy thanks to that."

"You seem well-versed in nen-healing," Hana noted.

"I am doing a Ph.D. in it. The regenerative properties of nen and how to use them to speed the healing process and slow aging."

"That sounds interesting," she genuinely said. "A pity most people won't be able to use it."

Leorio chuckled. "They won't, but I will. The Ph.D. is mainly an excuse to use the Hunter Association resources for my research. If it works, it could revolutionize the way I work. And the way a lot of doctors who know nen work."

It was about time Killua swallowed his loss, so he resigned and sat next to Hana. "As in, you'd depend less on medical facilities and more on your own nen, right?"

"Exactly. Medical advances are amazing, but they're also costly. Not everyone can afford a million jennies to treat cancer." Leorio's face darkened, if only for a split second. In his eyes, Killua saw the shadow of his friend, Pietro. Victim of a filthy system that ground lives and pains into money.

Pietro had died from that system.

"I heard Cheadle Yorkshire was interested in your work," Killua changed the topic.

"She is. She's the one who supported my project to give me the funds for it," Leorio proudly said. He chuckled, as though he remembered something. "Maya was so stoked when Cheadle contacted me, I thought she was gonna faint. She has a lot of esteem for President Cheadle."

"Maya is a nerd. Tell her I said that," Killua joked.

"She'll whack your head."

"If she can reach it, sure."

Hana snorted, then winced in pain. "Fuck. I shouldn't laugh." She looked vaguely at her abdomen as Leorio covered it with gauze. "Say, how is Maya? I mean, regarding…"

"The Whisper?" Leorio asked, briefly meeting her gaze.

She nodded. Killua didn't imagine the guilt that flashed in her eyes.

"Maya's fine. The Whisper's case isn't exaaactly going anywhere but, she'll live. She does miss Maes though."

"They haven't found anything new?" Killua asked with disbelief, checking if Hana was okay before looking at Leorio.

Leorio frowned. "Nothing. No trace of him. They don't call him the Whisper for nothing."

"There's no news of him either," Hana added.

"Yeah, no more kills. It's been, what, three weeks? Since the last time we heard about him? Nightowl is still composing a team; Maya heard he should soon decide."

"Is there really the need for an entire team to hunt him down?"

Hana spoke as Leorio couldn't reply. "He's powerful. It's unsure how many people he can curse at the same time, but the experience shows he can take down a team, all by himself."

And with the newfound knowledge that he could turn a selected few into puppets to further his curse… "Yeah. They do need a team."

Leorio didn't say more. He finished patching up Hana's wound, then stood up. "I'll come back in two days to see how the wound evolves. If it all goes well, you should be able to stand for longer periods of time then."

Hana brushed with the top of her finger the white gauze on her abdomen. Then, she grinned at Leorio. "Thank you. You're amazing."

He rubbed his nape, laughing pleasantly. "Well, thanks." He patted Killua's shoulder then as they walked away from the room. "Take care of her. Next time, I'll show you how to cover the wound yourself; she should have healed enough by then, she won't need me anymore."

Killua sighed. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Leorio just shook his head. "Just be glad I'm here."

The smile Killua gave him was nothing short of affection. "I am."

3:58 P.M.

"So, this is the folder Mulgrad was so proud to have sold to Arashi?"

Hana skimmed through the binder Killua had been working on, her eyes glossing over the kind of information she could have easily hacked from the Hunter Website.

Killua's head perked up at her voiced disdain. "Yep. I guess he thought it important to know Faem owns three candy shops in the city."

She snorted. "If anything, it shows Faem's prudence. He even controls what people know of him."

Killua sat on the chair next to her. "I wonder if Faem did it on purpose. Perhaps he baited Mulgrad with supposedly private info in hope of finding who was on his tail."

She rose her eyes from a dubious article about Faem's cement works industry. "You think Faem knows about Scylla?"

"I don't think he knows who Scylla is. He probably gives crumbs to all his associates, to earn their trust and test their allegiance. I do think he suspects someone to be on his ass though. At the ball, he wanted to know who had hired me. Arashi's an obvious guess, hence the spies at her mansion, but I doubt he knows the extent of her power—or how deep into this case she is."

"And even less the betrayal of one of his own," she mused, thinking of Penelope.

Hana put the binder on the nightstand. "Did you take a look at the bracelet?" she asked, shifting in her bed. She noticed his blue gaze following her movements. Worry hid in the curve of his mouth. "I'm fine," she assured.

He faintly nodded. He opened a drawer in her nightstand and took the transparent bag containing the little jewel. "I haven't worked on it yet."

"Really? Why?"

Again, he simply looked at her. With a little flutter in her chest, she realized he had been waiting for her. "Did you communicate with Arashi?" she added.

"Very quickly. I told them you retrieved the bracelet, but that you had been wounded."

"I hope I'm not slowing you down," she expressed. "You don't have to wait for me to recover to work on the case."

But Killua poked her nose. "You didn't slow anyone down. You got us the hint and weakened the enemy. He's in the same position you're in right now. If anything you two just stalled the action for a small… interlude. It gives us some time to investigate—and catch our breath."

Hana awkwardly chuckled. "I'm not sure it's an interlude. I'm pretty sure I pissed Smokey off twice as much."

An eyebrow quirked up. "Hana, what exactly happened there?"

Hana recounted the events of the night in details, from the search in the examination room to the fight in the reception room. She talked about her fear clawing at her heart, then the moment she realized how strong she could be, would she will herself to believe it.

Of course, there were also other details worth telling…

Killua listened to her with a curious expression. It shifted sometimes from his casual demeanor to a wince or a small quirk of his lips.

"So basically, you survived because you punched him in the dick. Repeatedly. With all your force."

She showed a toothy grin. "Kicked, please."

Killua visibly shuddered. "You're a horrifying opponent, Hana. Remind me to not ever get on your bad side."

She laughed and winced at the same time. "When in doubt, kick your enemy's dick."

"Sounds wise." He leaned in his chair, watching her with a little bit of wonder. "You kicked Smokey in the dick, shot him, deflected his attacks, and frustrated him so much he had to endanger himself to get to you. You did that."

Hana blushed a little. "I did that."

For a moment, Killua said nothing. He just looked at her with that undecipherable expression, his arms crossed and his legs extended in front of him.

Then, he smiled. A smile overflowing with pride. "Now that's my girl. I'm so fucking proud of you."

She flushed, but instead of hiding her face in her hands and squealing like she wanted to do, she gave her lips to him, puckering them in an almost comical manner.

And of course, he answered. He lay one soft, lingering kiss on her lips. "I'm gonna call you the dick-puncher from now on."

"The dick-stroyer," she corrected. "Tattoo it on my forehead. I'll make it my official name eventually."

He chortled, the mirth on his face pure honey to her. "So classy, Hana." Then his features hardened. "I don't know for sure if Smokey figured out your identity, but we can be sure he'll draw the link to my last unknown ally. It's best to assume he knows who you are, now."

She looked at her hands, folded neatly on her stomach. They were riddled with bruises and little scars. "I can't tell for sure. It was dark." She crossed his gaze. "I'm more worried about why he kept me alive."

"Didn't he shoot you?"

"I feel like he could have aimed for my vitals." She frowned. "He tried to choke me at some point, then let me breathe. I could feel he was stronger than me—he had so many opportunities to kill me. Maybe not with a bullet, but as much as I tried to keep physical contacts to a minimum, he could have used the Bite on me." She shivered at the thought. She remembered David's writhing form, the crawling noise texture slashing across his chest.

"Maybe he thought he could play before killing you," Killua said, although he didn't sound like he believed it himself. "Or…"

She inquired his gaze. Something heavy sat in there, heavy like a premonition. One that he clearly didn't like. "Or?"

"Or he knows."

Hana pursed her lips. "About my so-called gift."

"It is your gift. And though your ability is raw and unstable, it's an asset. I could imagine him keeping you alive to exploit your ability in the future—if he knows."

She toyed with the hem of her sheets. "That would either mean he dug into my past or saw me at the party talking to David."

"Most likely the second option—if he knew before, he'd have approached you in some way." He rested his forearms on his thighs. "Then again, I might be wrong."

"It makes sense though. If he wanted me dead, I would be so."

Killua shrugged. "You're tougher than you give yourself credit for. You probably can't beat him in a fair fight, but you do have your chances of escaping. That's what you did."

Hana offered a little smile. "You give me too much credit."

He pinched her cheek. "You don't give yourself enough."

She was tempted to stick her tongue out, but she decided against all expectations to remain a mature adult. "By the way, did you keep the clothes I wore the night I was shot?" Hana changed the topic.

"I kept them in a trash bag. What about them?"

"I think Smokey bled on me. Is there any way we could extract his DNA or something?"

Killua frowned. "Maybe, but I'm not sure it'll give any result. It's worth trying though."

"Lynd could tell us about a trustworthy DNA profiling scientist. We'd need to be careful but if there's any hint about Smokey we could gather, I'm all for taking it."

"Sounds fair," Killua agreed.

"I also found new things about Smokey's ability. Or at least, deduced them," she added.

"I'm all ears."

She gathered the memories, rewinding them in her mind. "First, he's not immune to his own curse. You know the toxic fog he launched in the ballroom?" As Killua acquiesced, she went on: "he can't breathe it either."

"Wait." Killua got up, exited the bedroom, and came back with Hana's laptop. "Let's recap, shall we?"

And so they did. They wrote down the different nuances of the smoke man's abilities. She would speak, and he would type, fingers flying on the keyboard. They gave the abilities little names. They created their own little glossary until all was clear to them.

The Bite. A direct attack and lethal nen curse, with little hopes of survival unless one has a pocket exorcist. It takes ninety seconds to kill—ninety seconds of pure agony. Once dead, the victim's body burns into itself and emanates toxic smoke that once inhaled can kill in return.

The Fog. A little bubble of smoke cast in an area and exploding into a black fog. Inhaling it is extremely dangerous; depending on the time of exposition and the quantity inhaled, it can be lethal. Once a certain threshold is reached, the victim dies the same way Bite victims do.

The Infection. A passive effect of the smoke man's abilities. Anyone dying from his curse becomes a vector of contamination.

The Oath. Swear it or you'll die. If the victim breaks their oath, they get bitten.

The Mask. A seemingly harmless ability used for glamour. And drama. Especially drama.

They smiled at their handiwork. "Add a little note below," Hana requested. "That he can be harmed by his own smoke if it's meant to be toxic."

Killua complied, quite happy with himself as he stared down the list of abilities. "He has quite the wide kit."

"It might not be all," she warned. "He's a powerful nen user; at least two of these abilities are minor or passive—the Mask and the Infection. They don't require the kind of work a new ability does. So I wouldn't be surprised if he had time to create one last ability. Perhaps not quite as strong, but there must be another one, completely different, that helps conceal his identity."

Killua tapped the pen on his nose. "For sure we'd have noticed if a man with those abilities was around. With its resources, the HCDS would have heard of it." He put the pen down. "Yeah, it'd make sense if he had an ability used for his… uh, day identity. Either that or he pretends to be a perfectly common person by day."

Hana considered the idea. "I don't know. He did break into the HCDS party, so he's either extremely rich or a hunter. And if he's a hunter, then he can potentially control what kind of info the HCDS knows of him. Edit the databases, burn archives, that kind of stuff."

"Smart. He has control over what's known of him." He turned around, the laptop still on his lap, and opened the drawer of her nightstand. He delicately took the little transparent bag, eyeing the golden jewel inside. "Now, this. You think it could be a potential hint about him? A unique one?"

Hana stared at the bracelet. It glistened in the light, the tiny chains sparkling like small fireflies strung together. When Killua moved the bracelet, the chains would pile together like water. "It's the kind of bracelet you fasten around a baby's wrist."

"What's written on it?" Killua asked as he squinted on the plate with the baby's name on it. "Ma—Malzi?"

"Yes." She frowned. "Now that I think of it, it's a Tanalean name."

He met her eyes. "You think it's Smokey's? That it's his bracelet?"

"It would explain why he personally went to take it instead of sending someone," she mused.

"But it doesn't explain why it was in Eugene's stomach," Killua half-joked. "We can't be sure of anything at this rate. If it's Smokey's, there's no reason for him to force-feed it to Eugene."

"Then it wasn't force-fed. Eugene ate it, perhaps to make himself sick."

"Or because he knew he'd die and kept the bracelet to hint on his murderer," Killua theorized. "Now as to how he had access to something supposedly important for Smokey…"

"Assuming Smokey and Malzi are the same person. And that Eugene had those intentions. And that no one noticed."

Killua sighed. "That's too many assumptions. So far, the most probable is that this thing belongs to Smokey, or perhaps Faem. We can't be sure about it ended in a corpse's stomach, we only know it was there and Smokey wants it." He paused. His eyes were lost in the screen in front of him, rereading the glossary they had made as though it held all the answers. "I guess we could try to research who Malzi is. It's a start. I doubt we'll find much, but we can't stay idle either. Since we can't exactly ask Eugene what happened."

An idea popped into Hana's mind. Luminous and risky, but worth it. "Elias could. He could read the aura in the bracelet and see the memories. If he's willing to help, it could be the key to our questions."

Killua's eyebrows furrowed. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused. "It could be. But it could be dangerous for him. I'll ask him if he's willing to help."

"Of course. I'll understand if he doesn't want to."

"I don't think he'll refuse," Killua said. "It's a step forward in his own investigation. Remember, El too has… things to find out, let's say. About Faem and his own parents."

"So you'll contact him?"

"Yeah, I'll text him. If he says yes, we'd have access to exclusive info."

Hana was about to reply when her phone emitted a little bell sound. She reached for it, and her eyes widened.

It was a message. From Kai.

I'm in Megamshill for some time. I've got something for you. Is it okay if we meet?

She remembered then what she asked him. Information about poisonous amaryllises in Tanalea, and the clans that used them. It had been a painful task to rummage through masses of articles—only to find nothing. She had resorted to Kai, a gifted culture hunter—who happened to be her ex— to help her find where the serial killer she feared the most had taken inspiration.

Her jaw was set. Her lips pursed. Noticing her change in behavior, Killua turned toward her. "Everything okay?"

She started typing her answer. "Kai has something about the Whisper. He wants to see me."

Killua said no more, though he did nothing to hide the slight bitterness at the prospect of Kai meeting her. He made no comment of it either.

She pressed the send button, then set her phone aside.

She felt satisfied with herself as she reread her message.

'Hey there! I hope you had a nice trip. You can come to my place (same address). I'm not well today but perhaps in like, two days? Three? Tell me what suits you.'

His reply came fast. 'I'll be there on Wednesday. Rest up; I'll see ya.'

7:12 P.M.

Elias took the little bag, turning it between his fingers to observe the baby-sized bracelet inside. It was made of fine gold, with thin chains linked to a tiny plate with a name carved on it. 'Malzi', it said.

"And you found that inside Eugene's stomach," he mumbled, his gaze going from Killua lazing on his chair to Hana still resting in her bed.

"To each their own," Killua deadpanned.

Elias snorted. "I mean, yeah. Totally not weird to find a baby bracelet in a corpse's stomach."

"We think it's a hint about Smokey," Hana said. "It's unsure whether it used to be his or whether it's unrelated."

"Also why did he have it on him at this moment," Killua added. He frowned. "And how it ended in Eugene's stomach."

"Yeah, that's a good one too," Elias mumbled, tilting the bag and watching the bracelet pour into one side of it. "I do get a… feel of it. Some remnants of aura."

"That's how I found it," Hana explained. "Are you sure you can do this though? If you feel it's too much, we'll find another way."

Elias weighed his chance at success against the strain it would cost him. He could feel the aura coating the bracelet, some of it years old, some of it fresh from a few months. "Hmm. I think it's gonna be a hard task but sounds fun to me. I'm in."

"Fun?" Killua repeated. "If we let any of the info you find slip away, it will eventually lead to you. You don't want them to know your secret."

But Elias brushed it off with a slight wave of his hand. "Meh. I've been using Time Seeker for years; it's like seeing the correction of an exercise before doing it. You just need to make it sound like you did the work yourself."

Hana grinned. "That's a nice way to put it. Once I know what I should find, I'll find some sources to blur the link to you."

"How thoughtful," Elias mused, a smile playing on his lips. "But don't worry too much about it. It's not that obvious that you know someone who can read memories. It's not exactly common."

"Which also reduces the pool of possibilities," Killua argued. "We can't afford to be imprudent."

"And so we won't be." Elias leveled Killua's calculating gaze with his own. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing. Which isn't something I usually do, because I never know what the hell is going on, but… that? It's my thing."

A lopsided smile was all Killua gave for an answer.

So, with no more things to say, Elias proceeded. He conjured the locket in his right hand, held the bracelet in the other, and pushed his aura through both objects. His mind engulfed the tunnel of memories, traveling through uncertain pictures strung together in a jumbled mess.

With a slight wince, he willed himself to focus, his eyebrows dipping in a deep frown, his mouth pursing into a thin line.

He breathed.

The images bustling through his mind slowed. In the rapid flow of memories, he found a start. A sequence of words and colors and emotions and sounds, still raw and blurry, but palpable. He could practically touch it.

So he reached for it. He reached for the small memory, the first one he could grab in this sea of old wreckages buried by time.

And he hooked it.

The cell was dark. Damp. Small and uncomfortable. A mere closet with no window to the outer world. He was sorry he would die there. Alone. Surrounded by moss and rust and gunpowder. He longed for the sun, the smell of paint, the cherry blossoms in the crook of his wife's neck.

But none of that would happen. Those thoughts would be his last.

They weren't here for nothing.

They were here for him.

They were here because he knew too much.

He glanced through the bars, at them. Two mercenaries, looking down from their leader's cold stare. The Ghost, they called him. Clad in black, with a mask of wafting smoke covering his face. Couldn't even afford to reveal his face to his own men and a hostage who was as good as dead.

Eugene almost snorted. He didn't see a ghost; only an arrogant man, murderer of his own brother, greedy for the riches of others. A man who was afraid of his own identity, using deceit to cover it.

Just a single, puny man.

"—nowhere to be found."

The 'Ghost' narrowed his eyes. For Eugene, the sight was almost funny. A giant mass of black smoke with two narrowed blue slits poking out of it. It was out of place, so contrasting with his normal attire. It was just as though midway through his god complex, this man had gotten lazy with the smoke drama and had decided to wear a light jacket.

He almost cackled at his own joke. What a thrift-store villain disguise it was.

"What do you mean you can't find it?" the thrift store ghost asked.

"We searched the butler's body; there's no comb. Nothing, boss."

Eugene resisted the urge to smirk.

"And so what? Did the comb just fly out of his hands?" the ghost seethed. He eyed Eugene from the corner of his eyes as his men babbled incoherent answers. His gaze was wicked, scathing with hate.

Eugene was smirking.

And the ghost hated it.

"Tell me," the ghost started, ambling into the tiny cell. He squatted to be at Eugene's level. Eugene never looked away, never left his gaze. "Who's the corpse upstairs? Is it really your butler's?"

Eugene didn't reply.

The ghost swiftly took a hand out of his pocket and slammed it against Eugene's throat. Eugene felt something land on his hand as he gasped. Surprise and pain surged him, but he closed his hand on what had fallen from the ghost's pocket.

"Your life isn't the only one at stake," the ghost murmured, his voice calm, otherworldly. He squeezed around Eugene's neck. "Think of your beautiful wife. I recall she sleeps with the window open. To smell the morning dew, she says, hm?"

All Eugene gave as a reply were a splutter of nonsense, one of his hand pressing around the ghost's wrists until he let him breathe.

"I'll ask again: whose corpse is upstairs?"

Eugene caught on his breath. His fist was still pressed around the small object.

He looked the ghost in the eye. "Ask him yourself."

The ghost struck Eugene with brutal force. It left Eugene with a ringing in his ears, a cheek burning with pain, and tears in his eyes.

Then, the ghost stood up and turned toward his men. "Inspect the corpse above. Search for any sign proving it's Leonardo. Birthmark, scar, anything."

"But sir," one of the men started. "Leonardo is one of us."

"Oh really," the ghost's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I must have lost my mind, then."

While the ghost had his back to him, and the mercenaries scurried away to their own confusing task, Eugene glimpsed at the small object.

It was a chain bracelet.

Without thinking, he swallowed it.

When his corpse would be exhumed, they would cut him open. They would find it.

And they would know the truth.

"—gone. He must have killed Leonardo during the brawl and glamour his corpse to look like his own. Finicky bastard." The Ghost let out an annoyed chuckle. He glanced at Eugene in his cell, disdain flashing through his piercing eyes. "Now, finish him. There's no use for him anymore."

The task had been assigned to the youngest mercenary. Just a boy, seventeen at most. His hands trembled with the gun. His eyes looked anywhere but at Eugene.

Eugene couldn't pretend he wasn't scared. There were so many things left to do, so many things he wanted to discover. He wasn't all that young, but the world changed. He wished he could change with it, alongside Arashi.

He would miss her.

His heart leaped at the sight of the cold barrel, the trigger, the scent of gunpowder.

"Aim here," he whispered, to the boy. He pointed to his forehead. "Make it fast for me, will you?"

The boy quickly glanced behind him, at his leader whom he feared so much. Eugene wondered if the boy was more scared of what he had been asked to do, or who had asked him to do it.

"Come on," he hissed, his hands shaking, his breath hitching, sweating beading on his forehead. "Please. Make it quick."

The boy turned. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Eugene closed his eyes. He thought of Aurora, her tired black eyes on her deathbed. Her little smile when she saw him weep. "Don't cry, papa," she had breathed.

He thought of life after death. He thought of the small church where they had cried his mother. Of the altar Arashi had dressed for their daughter. Of their faith, and their hands joined in prayer while they prayed to their respective gods.

He thought of his daughter.

The boy pulled the trigger.

The memories faded. They hitched, spasmed, twitched. Like a film roll spinning out of its hold, the images burning away into an uncertain curtain of black.

But the tunnel stretched. It pulled Elias in its depth, hurled him into the darkness. His ears seared, and he gritted his teeth as his mind traveled through the tenebrous veins of time.

Because he knew there was more. He felt it in the lining of his palm, in the weight of the bracelet, the name carved into the small gold plate.

A light appeared. There, the memories. Slow, incoherent, reluctant.

But real.

There was a boy.

Tan skin, dark hair. Piercing blue eyes. His hand was small. His gaze was tired.

There was a woman.

Pale skin, blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. Her hand held the boy's. Her gaze was tired.

There was a man.

Tall, wicked, dangerous. He had rings on his fingers and a gold watch on his wrist. He eyed them with disdain but hid it behind a pretense of kindness.

"—a pleasure to receive your offer," he said, displaying bright white teeth.

Fake.

The woman smiled. "Thank you, Monsieur Chevalier."

"Oh, Anthony is fine, Mademoiselle Roa." He narrowed his eyes. "Do you mind if I call you Leanaj?"

The woman forced herself to say no. The man seemed pleased to hear that. His ringed fingers drummed on his armchair. "And you," he said in a mock-friendly voice. He was talking to the boy. "What's your name?"

The boy pursed his lips. He stayed quiet, leveling the man's gaze until the woman—his mother— squeezed gently his hand. "Malzi," the boy forced out in a little voice.

The man smiled—

The memory slipped from his hold. He reached for it, reached for the pictures that fragmented into nothingness.

His head pounded with pain.

But he didn't let go.

The man smiled. "You're about the age of my son," he said. He waved for a maid to fetch the child. "You two could play together. You could be friends."

The maid came back with a little boy. He was smaller than Malzi, smaller than most kids his age. With his rosy cheeks, his blue eyes, and his blond curls, he almost looked like a little cherub. Almost, if not for his empty gaze.

The man stood up at his full height, then walked past them toward the sad cherub.

"My son, Erik."

The memory snapped. Invisible hands hurled him back, pushing him out of the tunnel of time. He tried to resist, feeling for a single thread to hold onto as the hands brought him back to the surface.

He was about to reach the present when he finally found it.

A thread.

She was asleep.

She always was.

In the cold, dark room, the air-conditioner whirred slowly. The heart monitor beeped regularly, the graphs peaking at the sounds' rhythm.

Malzi slowly walked toward the bed, his eyes never leaving the frail old woman sleeping in it. He sat next to her, brushing the hair away from her wrinkled forehead. Streaks of blonde were lost amid the white strands.

He sighed. Stared at the tubes coming in and out of her nose, her mouth, her arms.

He clenched his hand around the bracelet.

"I found the bracelet you gifted me, when I was a baby." His gaze brushed her closed eyes. She was peaceful, as though no harm could ever get to her. He passed a thumb on her cheekbone. "I'll retrieve everything. I promise."

She didn't answer.

And he lost his hold.

A/N: Oh wow some background info about Mister Edgy Villain! To be quite honest with you, I think when I wrote this chapter I was kinda using Overwatch as an inspiration. Malzi/Smokey when he wears his mask sounds like Reaper kinda, and when I thought of how to name his abilities and write them I kindaaaa did that in an Overwatch way, aka, "what if Smokey was a hero in Overwatch?".

It was a pretty fun chapter to watch! Next chapter is also done and I'll try to not take forever to publish it, I just tend to take a lot of time so I can make sure that plot-wise, all is good.

Anyway, thank you all for reading this chapter and I hope you liked it! Don't hesitate to leave a review, you know I love those :3

Bye!