The Chain User - Chapter 1 - kurapichrollo (2024)

Chapter Text

The view from Leorio’s window was obstructed by an overgrown fence, rendering it almost useless. But a little light still managed to filter through, illuminating two sweaty bodies in an otherwise dim bedroom.

Breathy moans filled the air, along with Leorio’s hushed praises of Kurapika.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, his body nestled between the blond’s legs. Like feet that have traversed a path countless times, so roamed Leorio’s hands up Kurapika’s waist, stopping just short of his ribs. He let his nails find purchase in the sensitive skin, eliciting a whimper. “Perfect. Your body is perfect.”

Kurapika was never good at receiving compliments, and Leorio knew this. His fair skin was flushed, and he felt more blood rushing to his face with each word Leorio uttered.

“Leorio,” Kurapika moaned.

“I love you like this. All red and embarrassed.”

“Please, stop talking.”

Leorio captured his lips in a soft kiss, his tongue beckoning Kurapika’s closer. The moment felt harmonic, with the pleasure and pressure building to a beautiful crescendo. Kurapika could almost hear the music they were making.

No, sh*t, that was a phone ringing. He broke the kiss, letting out a breathy, “Leorio.”

“I’m close, too.”

“No,” Kurapika said, his voice a little more even, “You’re getting a call.” He sat up, motioning to the bedside table littered with empty condom wrappers, lube packets, and one noisy phone.

“Hm?” He followed Kurapika’s line of sight, only then noticing the ringing phone. Kurapika sighed, feeling the panic set into his companion’s body. Leorio jumped up, grabbing the phone off the table and knocking over the framed photo of him and his lady caller.

“Baby!” he answered cheerfully, making apologetic eye contact with Kurapika and mouthing a “sorry.”

Kurapika laid on his back, eyes fixated on the window above, legs still spread open and registering the loss of heat. He shrugged and rolled off the side of the bed. He got up, wincing at the newly sore muscles, and located his clothes that were strewn haphazardly around the room.

“How was your day?” Leorio chatted animatedly, as if he had all f*cking day, Kurapika thought a little bitterly. He found his shirt and a sock under the bed, his pants hanging on the doorknob, and his underwear under Leorio’s foot. He tugged at them lightly.

“Are you serious? She didn’t,” Leorio spoke emphatically into the phone, hopping off of the briefs.

Kurapika rolled his eyes and stalked toward the bathroom. Once inside, he closed the door behind him, appreciating the way it muffled Leorio’s voice. He grabbed a washcloth off the drying rack, wet it under the faucet and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply.

It smelled like Leorio. It smelled like home. Like the foster home where they met, years ago, because Leorio never stopped using the same brand of soap that their foster mom had kept.

He finished washing his face and appraised himself in the mirror. He looked tired, both physically and mentally. His blond hair had officially grown past his shoulders, longer than ever before. It was partially because he couldn’t find the time (or money) to cut it, but also because he liked how unrecognizable he felt.

Ding! A text tone rang from Kurapika’s phone. He found it in his pants pocket and swiped through it, reading the message he’d anxiously been expecting all day.

Meteor City. 10 p.m.

Kurapika’s heartbeat thrummed in his chest at the text, feeling a familiar mix of uneasiness and determination.

“I love you. I’ll see you soon,” Leorio cooed from outside the door. “Hey, Kurapika? I don’t want to rush you, but I have to go pick up Menchi. Do you mind?”

This was the routine, after all.

Despite having a nasty breakup when they were teens, Kurapika and Leorio had never stopped hooking up.

How could you when it felt this right? Except lately, for Kurapika, it felt wrong. Because lately, Leorio had been dating someone seriously.

He’d had a lot of hookups and the occasional girlfriend over the years, but nothing proper. Neither had Kurapika. They were too busy with classes, working, or taking care of their foster brother, Gon. But as of 4 months ago, Leorio told Kurapika that he couldn’t keep crashing at his place, because he’d found a girl he thinks he wants to marry.

“How can you want to marry her when we’re…you know?” Kurapika had asked, somewhat exasperatedly.

“I know, and I’m sorry, I meant to tell you sooner,” his hands fell to clasp the blond’s loosely. “There just wasn’t a good time. Her family’s loaded, and she’s beautiful and… I think it could be good for Gon, for all of us.”

Heartstrings successfully tugged, Kurapika conceded.

Leorio insisted they’d have to stop hooking up. And they had–– for a few weeks. But late one night, he showed up at Kurapika’s doorstep, and he never comes to Kurapika’s, so what was he supposed to do? He let him spend the night, and it all went downhill from there.

It wasn’t fair, because Leorio knew him so well. Since the day they’d met, he made Kurapika feel special and warm after being cold for so long.

So here they were: Kurapika holding the sun in his bare hands, burning up under its scrutiny. His mental health had suffered a lot in the past few months, and it wasn’t just because of their affair.

He quickly threw his clothes on and left the bathroom, looking everywhere for his second sock.

“Catch,” Leorio said, throwing the balled-up sock at him. “Sorry I can’t give you a ride to dinner, but I’ll see you in a few?”

Kurapika nodded, not certain if his voice would betray how unhappy he was feeling. But Leorio already knew. He sauntered up to the pouting blond, using two fingers to tip his head up toward him. He kissed Kurapika sweetly, letting him melt into his arms. It was over quickly. Before he knew it, Kurapika had the door shut behind him and he was standing alone in the chilly parking lot.

I don’t even know which way the restaurant is.

“Kurapika, wait!” Leorio called from the door, running toward him. Kurapika’s heart leapt to his throat and he whirled around, surprised to hear him call after him.

“You forgot your earring by the sink.” He caught up to the blond, slapping the cold jewelry in his hand.

Kurapika muttered a small “thanks,” and closed his hand over the red, teardrop-shaped jewel. He turned around and started walking, not knowing if he was going in the right direction, just hoping to put distance between himself and Leorio’s apartment. He turned the block, then another, and then broke into an all-out sprint, the wind whipping his hair back and stinging his watery eyes.

Trapped. That was all Kurapika had ever felt. Bound to this life he’d found himself living.

He’d had a happy and pretty unremarkable childhood with two, loving parents. Those halcyon days were probably the last time he’d felt free to be whomever he wanted to be, with possibilities unfurling before him in every direction.

But this was Yorknew City, where many choices were made for you.

Kurapika sat on a bench, chest heaving, his breath still coming back to him. He felt his pocket for his phone and took it out to type in the name of the restaurant where he was supposed to meet his foster family. Luckily it was only a 15-minute walk, so he set out in that direction, anxiously dreading the awkwardness to come.

He arrived at the restaurant, seeing the familiar silhouettes of two young boys and a tall man standing out front that made his heart ache with nostalgia. But his vision widened, and he finally saw Leorio’s girlfriend talking to Melody, their foster mom. It felt like a bucket of ice water was dumped over his head. She was as beautiful as the photo on Leorio’s nightstand suggested, and she laughed genially with the group.

They haven’t seen me yet. I could say I got held up, he thought. But he was too slow. Gon spotted him through the mess of people and lit up instantly.

“Kurapika!” he chirped, running full force into the blond’s arms. Kurapika smiled, feeling the heaviness in his chest dissipate. Gon was, as always, a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dark and depressing world. Gon’s best friend Killua strolled along casually a few seconds behind him, head buried in a handheld console game.

“Sup Kurapika?”

He greeted the two kids, taking Gon’s hand and getting tugged along behind him as they walked back to the restaurant entrance toward the rest of the group, toward Leorio and Menchi. To Kurapika, it felt strangely like an execution walk.

“We just got here! Leorio was introducing us to his new girlfriend! Have you met her yet?” Gon asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Kurapika forced.

For an imperceptible moment Killua looked up from his game to scrutinize Kurapika before returning to the console.

They reached their party at the restaurant entrance. Melody was delighted to see Kurapika, and wrapped him in a big bear hug.

Melody had taken in Kurapika when he was 12 and gave him a home when he was at his lowest. She didn’t try to replace his mom, and instead felt like a kind older sister to him. She loved music, and introduced him to everything from classical instrumentals to hyperpop. When Kurapika was 16, a 17-year-old Leorio was placed in the foster home, and Gon a year later. There were other children at the foster home, but these three had completely found their family in each other.

Gon had only met Killua in the last couple of years or so, after Kurapika and Leorio had already gone to college. They became inseparable, and it was rare to see one without the other on their adventures in the city.

“Menchi,” Leorio said, looking only at Kurapika, “this is my best friend Kurapika. Kurapika, Menchi.”

“This is the famous Kurapika,” Menchi smiled, holding out a dainty hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Kurapika’s throat was still tight from Leorio’s introduction of his “best friend,” and he could barely choke out a “nice to meet you,” before Leorio interrupted.

“All good things, of course!” he laughed. “Let’s grab a table, I’m starving.”

It was sufficiently awkward. Kurapika chose to hang back when everyone entered the restaurant. He pulled out his phone to check his messages, rereading the one he’d received earlier.

Meteor City, 10 p.m.

“Y’coming?” Gon called from the door.

“Yeah!” he replied casually, shoving his phone back into his coat pocket.

They found a nice booth inside the restaurant, with Kurapika taking great care to sit at the opposite end from Leorio and Menchi.

When the waiter arrived to take everyone’s drink orders, he followed up by asking if the bill would be all on one check.

Leorio’s hand shot up.

“I’ll be handling that.”

It was an unspoken but understood fact of their family dynamic: as the dad, Leorio paid for all of them. He graduated from college in the spring, beginning his lifelong journey of becoming a doctor. And Kurapika had to save every cent he had.

Kurapika found himself in Melody’s foster home after his parents were killed. They were in major debt to one of the many crime families in Yorknew City, and one day it caught up to them. What frustrated Kurapika most is that his story wasn’t even particularly unique.

In the city where they had grown up, it was rare to find someone whose life wasn’t touched by organized crime and gang violence. The corruption was baked into the city and its institutions. Leorio’s father had to relinquish his parental rights due to crushing medical debt he owed to a gang-affiliated hospital. Gon’s parents were caught in the crossfire of a gunfight over territory. Their foster home was bursting at the seams with the children left behind by the bloodshed and the bullets.

Kurapika anxiously checked his phone. 8 p.m. Their waiter brought drinks for the table and took their orders before leaving again.

“Have you heard about the museum heist that happened today?” Gon asked the table excitedly, plunging a straw into his soda.

“No? You mean the Yorknew Museum got robbed?” Kurapika asked, surprised.

“During the day!” Killua added, not looking up from his game. “They think the thieves snuck in with a group of students on a field trip.”

“Are you serious?” Leorio asked.

“You really haven’t heard this?” Menchi interjected. “It’s been all over the news today.”

Can I drown in this drink? Kurapika wondered, eyes not lifting from the beverage in his hand.

“The emergency room was crazy today. I must have missed it,” Leorio lied, a little too easily. He switched the subject. “Did they say who did it? Although I can probably guess.”

There were two factions in Yorknew City that were responsible for a majority of the crime that took place.

The Nostrade Family had lived in Yorknew for decades, accumulating a staggering wealth that had every politician, religious leader, and business owner on their payroll. The family patriarch, Light Nostrade, was untouchable. He was wanted by the federal government for most major crimes from drug trafficking to racketeering to straight-up murder. He owned the largest properties in the city— apartment buildings, museums restaurants, clubs, and casinos, and he ruled them with an iron fist. He consolidated most of the major gangs and mob families in Yorknew City, offering them immunity, wealth, and power if they joined him, and death if they didn’t. It was this inter-gang violence that claimed Gon’s parents. But around this time, a second faction rose to power.

They were called the Phantom Troupe. The Troupe was relatively new to Yorknew, only appearing in the last 5 years or so, but they quickly gained the same fear and prestige as the Nostrade Family. Rumors spread of a group of skilled mercenaries who were united against Yorknew’s corruption. They stole from the rich and gave only to themselves. Beyond that information, they were ghosts. No one had ever seen a member and lived to tell the story, nor had any evidence ever been produced to convict them of the robberies. It was this distinct lack of evidence that was their calling card— crimes committed a little too competently, letting on that they were no average criminals.

Seeing as the wealthy of Yorknew were largely Nostrade Family members, this led to an invisible war between the two groups, with robberies cropping up at Nostrade Family-owned properties across the city. It became commonplace to hear people call the Phantom Troupe the “Spiders” and the Nostrades the “Scorpions.” This was due to the Troupe’s stealth and merciless killings, in contrast to the Nostrades’ far-reaching power and connections. It was a classic case of new versus old, age clashing with youth, and tradition fighting against innovation. Kurapika was sick of it.

But naturally, if a high-profile robbery like this was committed, it was no doubt that the Spiders were responsible.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Killua chimed in matter-of-factly. “Nice,” he muttered, apparently having scored in his game. Satisfied, he powered it down and put it away. He looked up, finally noticing the table of people watching him.

“What? Oh. The robberies. Gon, don’t you remember a few weeks ago when we were approached by that lady on the street?”

It was common for the two boys to perform tricks on the bustling city streets, challenging passers-by to arm wrestling contests or shell games. They could turn a pretty penny or two on the weekend, and it was how they saved up for their latest video game obsession, Greed Island.

“The girl with the pink hair!”

“Exactly. She was impressed by the way we beat her in the shell game and asked if we wanted to help her rob a museum. We thought she was joking...”

Their waiter arrived with the food, pausing their conversation as they dug into their noodle bowls. Once he left, Kurapika resumed his questions, his interest piqued.

“That confirms it was the Spiders who robbed the museum, then? They’re known to have younger members,” Kurapika suggested.

“Maybe,” Killua said noncommittally, giving his soup a hearty slurp. “But when have you known the Spiders to recruit kids off the street?”

“I’ve heard enough about the Spiders,” Melody cut in firmly. “I barely get to see Leorio and Kurapika anymore! I want to hear all about what’s going on with their lives.” She turned to them expectantly. There was a pause.

“Well-”

“Classes have-” Leorio and Kurapika responded simultaneously.

“That’s amazing, Leorio. And Kurapika? Are you still working that night shift job?”

Kurapika blanched. He hated lying to the people around him, and technically the job did take place at night. But he felt icky nonetheless.

“Yep, I’m working hard,” he nodded. He noted the way Leorio’s eyes cut into him and stammered. “A-And classes are going well, too. I’m in a really interesting anthropology class that studies forgotten cultures throughout history.”

Melody was delighted to hear this, and clapped her hands lightly.

“That makes me so happy,” she smiled.

If it were up to him, Kurapika would study other cultures for a living— but an anthropology degree didn’t go very far in this city. So his major was still undecided.

He was technically only in his third year of college since he took a gap year to work. Not by choice, though.

The day after Kurapika’s 18th birthday party, when he had just picked himself up off the floor of Leorio’s dorm room to stagger back to the foster home, he was approached by a group of men. He felt something cold and hard press into his back, and they ordered him to come with them. Kurapika was still recovering from the night before, feeling only confusion and irritation at the men’s volume. He agreed to follow them only if they promised to stop yelling.

In the car, the men explained the exact circ*mstances of the death of Kurapika’s parents: how their business had gone bankrupt, how they took on a loan that they couldn’t pay back, and how Kurapika was the one who was responsible for their $750,000 debt, which had been accruing interest since their deaths 6 years ago.

It was extortion, plain and simple. Kurapika immediately pushed back, saying that his parents’ debt had nothing to do with him. But they didn’t care. They showed Kurapika a photo that made his stomach lurch: him, Leorio, and Gon through the window of their foster home, sitting down for dinner.

The car dropped him off in front of the foster home, a final unspoken we-know-where-you-live from the thugs before they sped off.

Kurapika didn’t tell his foster family what the men had threatened exactly, only that he now had a debt to pay off on his parents’ behalf. They didn’t pry, as if they knew learning more about the situation would only upset them. Instead, they vowed to help Kurapika pay off his debt.

“We’re all we have,” Leorio had comforted him. “We can solve anything together.”

At the table, Kurapika’s phone buzzed in his pocket, which he quickly pulled out to check. A new message had appeared.

See you soon.

Kurapika cleared his throat and checked the time. Almost 9 p.m. He stood, taking his bagged leftovers.

“I should actually get going, you guys.”

“Aw man, we barely got to talk!” Gon complained. “Can you take us to the museum when it reopens? We wanna see where the stolen exhibits were!”

“I wouldn’t mind a museum trip,” Kurapika smiled thoughtfully, prompting both boys to get up and give him a group hug.

“It was so nice to see you,” Melody chimed, being the next to hug Kurapika.

No matter how often he saw them, it was never enough, he thought. These four people had become his North star, and he could get lost in the tempestuous seas of his emotions without them.

Kurapika steeled himself and turned to Leorio and Menchi.

“Menchi, it was nice to meet you. I hope you can join us for another meal sometime, soon,” he said politely.

And with that, he left, not realizing that he didn’t say bye to Leorio.

Kurapika would've walked, but he was in a hurry tonight, so he decided to take the bus home. He got on, passing overworked businessmen who were just leaving the office and braindead students who lived in off-campus housing like him. There was an open seat in the very back, just in front of a girl in glasses and someone asleep next to her. He sat down, his aching muscles again reminding him of his sordid affair with Leorio.

Ugh, he thought. That was the last time I go over there.

Kurapika thought about the girl sitting behind him, specifically her inverted cross earrings. He remembered his own earring that was still in his pocket and took it out, noting how fragile it felt in his hand. This earring was a part of a pair, and together they were his mom’s signature look, an iconic part of his core memories of her.

It was all he had left of her.

Even on this dingy bus, it shone brightly, catching what little light emanated from passing streetlamps. He put it back in its rightful place in his left ear, feeling the comfort that it brought returning to him, making him feel more whole. His eyes slid closed as he tried to catch some shut eye on the ride home.

Ding! His phone alerted him. He sat up and fished out his phone. It was a text from an unknown number.

Hunter, I’d like to book your services.

Kurapika scanned the message, feeling the same thrilling rush of fear he’d become accustomed to when receiving such a text. He swallowed it down, knowing he wasn’t interested. He typed out a reply.

I’m not accepting new clients at the moment.

He moved to pocket his phone again before another Ding! came through, less than a second later. They’d responded.

Name your price.

Kurapika’s heart rate increased as he read and reread the words, considering the possibilities. He really wasn’t accepting new clients, since his latest one was a cash cow. But money was money, and he was in debt.

He pocketed his phone, deciding to think about it more later.

The bus ride from the restaurant to Kurapika’s apartment was only 10 minutes. He hopped to his feet the moment it stopped, tick tacking quickly down the bus steps and dashing across the street.

Kurapika opened the door to his cramped first-floor studio and inhaled deeply, feeling the stress of the day dissipate. This was the cheapest place that Kurapika could find and the most he could afford. He loved every inch of its 500 square feet. It had one bathroom, a lofted bed, and a double burner stove. He put his leftovers in the fridge, already fantasizing about how good they were going to taste later in bed with a good book.

He pulled his hoodie up and over his head and kicked off his pants. The perks of a studio were that the whole apartment was your changing room. He changed into a different outfit: a black cashmere sweater and black slacks. He knelt by his bedside drawer and pulled out a matching black duffle bag. He ran his hands over the canvas material, noting the smooth leather detailing on the handles. He grimaced.

It was expensive, worth more than several months of his rent, but it was a gift. So he unzipped it.

He went through the bag’s contents, double-checking each item.

Gags, ropes, dild*s, whips of varying sizes and materials, blindfolds, candles, lotion— all of the essentials were here. He placed the items back inside the fabric-lined duffle when a silver chain caught his eye at the bottom.

Not tonight, he thought.

He took the chain out and placed it on his bedside table and zipped the duffle bag closed. Before heading out, he stopped in the bathroom.

He opened the medicine cabinet and took out a contact case, which he unscrewed. Two glowing red lenses stared back at him.

He popped them in, getting acclimated to the feel of the contacts in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and everything came into focus once more. The scarlet eyes gazed back at him again, reflected in the mirror. Kurapika stared back.

He finally looked the way he felt inside: full of rage.

He was angry. Angry with the world and the way it pushed him along, taking away all of his agency and autonomy. The only time that Kurapika felt like he was actually in control was when he wore these contacts. Feeling emboldened, he pulled his phone out, locating the text from the unknown number and replied, attaching a link to his text.

$15K per session. Contract available here, along with money transfer info.

Kurapika shoved the phone back into his pocket, resolute. He would pay off his debt and take control of his life.

He grabbed the duffle and stepped into his “work shoes,” which were matching black leather boots. Altogether, Kurapika hated to think how much his outfit cost, and so he tried not to.

He left, promising his empty apartment that he’d be back, and hopping on the next bus that would take him to the inner city.

Meteor City was packed with a line of partygoers, trust fund babies and dudebros snaking down the block. Kurapika cut past them, unconcerned, and headed straight for the muscle-bound man with the earpiece who stood atop it. A smokey cigarette stench permeated the air.

Without looking up from his phone, the bouncer began his usual spiel.

“Name?” His eyes flickered up. “Oh sh*t, you can follow me.” He quickly pocketed his phone and took Kurapika’s bag, ushering him inside.

The burly man opened the door into a dark hallway and down a flight of stairs. Kurapika could feel the atmosphere thicken with each step, becoming palpable with the pulsing activity of the party below. The muffled EDM music was much louder now and only served to intensify the tension in his gut he’d been trying to ignore all day.

“The boss said he’s going to be a little late again,” the man shouted apologetically, “and to get a drink on his tab while you wait. It shouldn’t be more than 10 minutes.”

Kurapika sighed and nodded. He hated waiting here. They continued down a hallway that ended in a set of double doors. The music was f*cking loud, inescapable now, drowning out Kurapika’s “thanks” to the bouncer who held the door open for him.

He stepped through the doors into a dark warehouse and felt the rise in temperature immediately.

Only one word came to mind whenever Kurapika visited Meteor City: excess. The wealthy of Yorknew flocked to clubs like this every night, dressed to the nines and reveling in their opulence. Flamboyant clothes, jewelry, shoes, and accessories all served to indicate one’s status and power. Extravagant entertainment was always secured, be it cage dancers or foam machines or a person in a leather bodysuit being walked around the club on a leash. When he was still new to it all, Kurapika found himself completely scandalized, unable to hold eye contact with anyone in the room.

But now he barely batted an eye.

Meteor City was particularly crowded tonight. A mass of bodies moved rhythmically on the dancefloor, which was really the whole room. Neon-clad dancers twirled above them, suspended from the ceiling on giant hoops.

This wasn’t really Kurapika’s scene. He much preferred the calm quiet of the library stacks on his campus or the peaceful solitude of his studio loft. He tried to minimize his time in clubs and preferred it when the clients sent a black car to pick him up directly. But here he was.

Because his latest client was a bit of an exception.

Kurapika took in the crowd of heavily made-up men and women, and in one case a literal clown, and eyed the bar from across the room. Setting his sights on the source of alcohol, he made his way through the crush of humanity on the dancefloor.

He sidled up to the bar, finding a vacant seat in the corner, and ordered a shot of vodka.

“What kind?” The bartender asked.

“The expensive kind,” Kurapika shouted over the music. “It’s on Mr. N’s tab.”

The bartender whistled, not expecting that response, and produced a heavy-looking bottle. He poured the blond a generous shot, which he immediately threw back. He liked the way it burned as it went down, in the same way that a really hot shower scalds your skin but warms your bones.

Peering down into the empty shot glass, Kuapika surveyed the life choices that had brought him to Meteor City at 10 p.m.

It started when he was 18. He had been working odd jobs around the city trying to pay off his debt and was getting nowhere. Nothing paid more than minimum wage, and that $750,000 mountain was accumulating interest with each day.

While job hunting, he saw an ad online that piqued his interest. BLOND DOM/ME, BDSM $150/hr. Kurapika was skeptical, having a lot of internalized stigma surrounding sex work. But for some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Just reading the position description sent a lick of adrenaline through him. The page explained that experience wasn’t necessary, as training would be included. And the part that really caught his attention? “Sex negotiable, not mandatory.”

Kurapika didn’t hate the sound of that. $150/hour to learn a new skill, and he didn’t have to put out. He was already pretty good with his hands, considering all the odd jobs he’d been performing as of late. He applied after a night of tossing and turning with his conscience. They called five minutes later, and the rest was history. The job was for an escort service called The Hunter’s Tavern, whose main draw was that it offered every variety of services one could desire. They were discreet, setting up anonymous appointments contracted and paid for in advance, and they served a high-profile clientele. Kurapika trained under a kind dominatrix with sharp green eyes and an equally sharp tongue. Her name was Baise, and she oversaw their BDSM services.

“I think you could pass for a Hunter,” she’d said upon meeting him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You don’t have to have sex with the clients, but I won’t stop you if you want to. Just make sure they pay.” Kurapika laughed, certain he wasn’t interested in anything of the sort.

Baise showed him the ropes (and whips, and chains) and he’d found that it actually wasn’t terrible. He actually enjoyed it.

His first client was a small mousy woman, probably in her 40s, who he met at a high-rise hotel in the inner city. She was quiet and looked more nervous than Kurapika, which seemed impossible to him. His dollar store red contacts burned in his eyes, but he couldn’t afford new ones yet. Blinking profusely, he handcuffed the woman to a bed, blindfolded her, and dripped hot candle wax all over her body. He watched in awe as her muscles relaxed under his touch, the invisible tension she’d been carrying dissolving with each stinging drop. She sighed, murmuring a few thank-yous during the scene. Afterward, he gave her a massage, and then she got redressed. She thanked him profusely.

“You have a gift,” she insisted.

She left him a $100 tip on the nightstand, and he got to stay in the hotel overnight. He spent 2 hours in the bathtub soaking up the bubble bath, experiencing luxury for the first time in his life. Beyond meeting his foster family, it was probably one of his happiest memories in recent years.

The next morning, Leorio would call and ask where he went.

“I stopped by the foster home but they said you were out.” Accusation.
“I was working. I got a new night job.” Denial.

Kurapika felt a new feeling eat away at him: shame. He’d never had to lie so blatantly before, and it filled him with dread. It had ever since.

And that’s how he found himself here, at Meteor City, at 10 p.m, drowning his sorrows in a very expensive-tasting vodka.

“I would leave my wife for you,” an inebriated voice slurred, snapping Kurapika out of his one-man pity party. Right, he was waiting for his client.

He lifted his head, seeing a drunken middle-aged man approaching him. He instantly regretted sitting in the corner, realizing he had nowhere to go.

“Please don’t, I’m not interested,” Kurapika said stiffly.

“Goddamn you are nice to look at,” the man continued, undeterred, now just inches away from Kurapika, his breath reeking of liquor.

Am I supposed to say thank you? Kurapika wondered. He sighed, fearing the worst of this confrontation. He hated waiting here.

“Your hair, just like a girl’s,” the besotted man said, reaching a hand out to touch his bangs, making Kurapika jerk backward.

A pale hand clamped down forcefully on the man’s wrist from above.

“There you are,” a calm, almost amused voice cut through the loud music. “I’d been looking everywhere for you.” The drunk man cried out in pain, his arm in agony.

Kurapika looked up, realizing the voice was talking to him.

He met the even and measured gaze of a young man in his twenties with a cross tattooed on his forehead. The man wore a gaudy black jacket with feather trim and no shirt underneath, inviting Kurapika to look further. He forced his eyes up, noting that the man had black hair, earrings, and gray eyes that only reflected back Kurapika’s own scarlet orbs. It shouldn't work for him, but it did, Kurapika thought distressingly.

The young man looked down at the blond expectantly. It took him a beat, but he finally understood.

“H-Hey, what took you so long?” Kurapika said, playing into the ruse. He wiggled around and out of the cage of the drunken man’s outstretched hand and moved closer to the tattooed man. He observed that the tattooed man was still taller than him, and was still looking down at him expectantly, although he had now dragged his eyes down to Kurapika’s earring.

His lips quirked. He didn’t relent with his unyielding grip, and the drunken man had grown extremely repentant.

“sh*t, I didn’t realize he was- I’m sorry!” The man twisted in his grip. The young man’s attention finally turned from Kurapika to the drunk idiot, his murderous aura electrifying the air around them. He smiled.

“f*ck off.”

And the man did. Quickly.

Kurapika took a step back from the young man, feeling he’d invaded his personal space.

“Thank you.”

“Hm?” the man leaned down. Kurapika craned his neck up, meeting him halfway. He felt the heat rising from the man’s chest and blushed.

“Thanks,” Kurapika repeated.

The man said nothing, and only smiled at him, confusing Kurapika. Did he want a cookie or something?

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and knew his client’s car was out front.

“I have to-” he began.

“It was nice meeting you,” the man said, nodding at him.

Kurapika wasn’t one to wait around, and disappeared into the crowd, feeling watched every step of the way out. When he reached the door, his phone buzzed again. He fished it out of his pocket. From the unknown number, the message read:

90,000 transferred to your account. I look forward to seeing you.

Kurapika was stunned. That’s… 6 sessions paid in advance? Just who was this big spender? The door opened, the bouncer sent in to get him, and Kurapika pocketed his phone. He was escorted into the black car waiting out front, and the bouncer handed him his duffle bag before shutting the door behind him.

The back seat of the car was shrouded in cigar smoke, obfuscating its occupant who sat across from Kurapika.

“Hunter, my angel,” Light Nostrade said.

The blond shifted uncomfortably, feeling the old man’s eyes slithering over every inch of his small frame in a way that made him feel disgusting.

“Hello,” he replied politely.

“I’m terribly sorry that I’m late, my dear. But you look lovely in the outfit I got you. I’m glad everything fits nicely.”

This was what he hated the most about domming for people like Light Nostrade. The way he paraded his things around constantly.

He was sure that his parents’ debt was somehow connected to Nostrade, but it didn’t matter. Because $750,000 was nothing to him. But for Kurapika, it was the difference between his friends’ life and death.

“Thank you,” Kurapika replied icily.

“So there’s something I wanted to talk to you about before our appointment. I have a request to make of you.”

Kurapika was confused— they really didn’t talk during their sessions.

“Talk?”

“Yes,” he smiled, crossing his legs, “I’m going to be going out of town for some time on business, and I need you to take care of something for me while I’m gone.”

Kurapika felt a nervousness creeping in, starting from the top of his head and diffusing throughout his body— a foreboding feeling, a million internal instincts urging him to open the door and roll out of the car, now.

“Me? I’m not sure I’d be the best person to-”

“You’re discreet, and someone that I can trust,” Mr. Nostrade interrupted. “That’s all I need. And I’ll pay you handsomely.”

That got Kurapika’s attention. He narrowed his eyes.

“While I’m out of town, I need you to hold on to a package for me. You can keep it wherever you’d like. All you have to do is bring the package to our next appointment, which will be next month.”

Kurapika processed his words. “A package?”

The old man smirked and took a large puff from his cigar.

“Nothing illegal, I promise, it’s just something I can’t keep on my person anymore. There are too many unknown variables around me.”

Kurapika thought some more.

“I’ll pay you $200,000 now, and $200,000 upon completion,” he added.

The answer came tumbling out of Kurapika’s mouth before he even knew what he was saying.

“I’ll do it.”