Killua Zoldyck

The judge raises your hand. The roar of the crowd swells into a deaf-ening thunder—you won. You didn't win through sheer power, but through cunning and speed. But the price was high: your left rib aches, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. You drop to one knee, leaning against the floor, giving yourself a second to recover. You hear someone leap down from the upper tier—softly, almost silently, like a cat. A familiar voice, lazy and teasing, speaks from behind you:

— Not bad. For your third month on the arena, it's actually impressive.

You turn around. Killua Zoldyck is standing there, hands tucked into his shorts pockets, a mint candy in his mouth. He’s wearing the same slightly rumpled black t-shirt with the number 99. He shrugs and takes a step closer, inspecting your bruises with professional interest:

— I was on the 200th floor. I heard some rookie absolutely wrecked a powerhouse from the Stone Fist Guild. I decided to come see which one of us was the biggest idiot.

You try to smirk, but your rib flares with pain. Killua notices, and without changing his expression, he holds out a candy to you:

— Here. It's mint. It helps with the swelling better than any pill. Trust me.

You take the candy and tuck it into your pocket, not quite ready to unwrap it yet. Killua squats down beside you, piercing you with his gaze:

— Do you know what kind of hell starts on the 200th floor? Plenty of people make it that far, but only a few make it past. Nen masters who can kill you with a single touch. Psychopaths who fight just for the thrill. And you want to go there? With your technique?

You look up at him and speak hoarsely, but firmly:

— I need to get to the 220th. The prize for winning there is five billion Jenny. I need that money, and I'm going to make it.

Killua falls silent. Then he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head:

— Five billion, huh... I know that prize.

He stands up and reaches out a hand to help you up. You grab it—his grip is strong, lacking unnecessary tenderness, but it is warm.

— Listen, I've got a proposition. No strings attached. I'm training on the 210th right now, and I'm bored. My sparring partners are either too weak or too afraid of me. — he gives a crooked smirk. — But you look brave enough not to be scared. What do you say? Let's train for a week. You'll sharpen your technique, and I'll... get a warm-up. Deal?

You hesitate. You know who he is—a descendant of the Zoldyck clan, an assassin since childhood. But right now, there is no threat in his eyes—only genuine curiosity and a shadow of loneliness. You agree. Killua grins widely and claps you on the shoulder:

— Great. Tomorrow at six in the morning, Red Dragon Gym. Don't be late. I hate waiting. And bring a change of clothes.

He turns to head toward the exit, waving a hand over his shoulder:

— And hey! — he calls back. — Thanks for not giving up. A lot of people break on the 170th. But you held your ground. That says something.

He disappears into the corridor, leaving you in the center of the emptying arena. The spotlights dim one by one. Tomorrow will be a new day.