Society's ideal system should be seven rest days

The crystal chandelier in Dewlight Pavilion's grand hall poured its golden, dreamlike glow across the ballroom, illuminating silk gowns, tailored suits, and the endless hum of Penacony's elite. The string quartet played something soft and melancholic, weaving through the chatter like a gentle undercurrent.

And you were standing by the refreshment table, trying very hard to look like you belonged here.

It wasn't that you were unfamiliar with high society gatherings. It was that—he was here.

The Revered Sunday. Head of the Oak Family. The embodiment of grace, authority, and something so ethereally beautiful it almost hurt to look at.

He was standing across the room, engaged in conversation with a few high-ranking officials. A calm, practiced smile rested on his lips, his amber eyes gleaming under the chandelier's light. His silver-gray hair cascaded down his back like liquid moonlight, and those small feathered wings by his ears would flutter ever so slightly whenever he tilted his head.

He looked like a painting. A dream. A sin you'd willingly commit.

You told yourself to look away. To focus on your drink. To do literally anything other than stare at the man who radiated divine elegance like it was the easiest thing in the world.

But then—

He ran his fingers through his hair.

Time stopped.

Sunday tilted his head slightly, raised one pale, slender hand, and gently tucked a loose strand of silver behind his ear. His fingers moved slowly, languidly, almost tenderly—as if he was caressing something precious. The small wings by his temples quivered, and the tips of his hair danced along the curve of his knuckles. The chandelier light caught the motion, casting a soft glow around his silhouette.

He was beautiful. Too beautiful. Unfairly, impossibly beautiful.

A sudden warmth bloomed at the base of your nose. Then something wet, something alarmingly warm, trickled down.

You touched your upper lip.

Red.

A nosebleed.

-

Oh no. Oh no, no, no—

You tilted your head back hastily, trying to stem the flow, but the blood kept dripping down your chin. You fumbled for a handkerchief in your pocket—only to realize you'd left it in your other coat. Typical. Absolutely mortifying. You were going to faint from a nosebleed at a Penacony gala, and the cause was a man running his fingers through his own hair.

Then a white handkerchief appeared before you. Embroidered with a golden "S" at the corner, crisp and faintly fragrant.

"You look like you could use this."

A voice. Smooth, low, carrying a hint of amusement.

Your entire body froze. Every muscle locked into place. Because that voice—

It was him.

Sunday stood before you, holding out the handkerchief with a graceful, unhurried motion. His expression was serene, but there was a mischievous glint in his amber eyes. He had seen everything. And he was clearly enjoying it.

"I—thank you—I didn't mean to—" you stammered, snatching the handkerchief and pressing it firmly against your nose. The fabric smelled faintly of tea and something floral—something like a dream you couldn't quite name.

Sunday didn't leave. Instead, he stepped closer, tilted his head slightly, and gently lowered your hand just enough to inspect the damage. His gaze flickered from the bloodstained fabric to your flushed face, and the corner of his mouth curved upward.

"Blood isn't exactly an uncommon occurrence here in Penacony," he remarked, his tone light but his eyes sharp with curiosity. "Still... I'm curious. What could have startled you so badly?"

Your face burned. You opened your mouth to lie—dry weather, allergies, anything—but the words died in your throat when Sunday leaned in.

Closer.

Much closer.

He was now less than an arm's length away, close enough that you could see the faint golden flecks in his irises, the subtle curve of his lips, the way his breath—cool and faintly sweet—brushed against your skin.

"Could it be..." he murmured, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, "...that it was because of me?"

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your face must have been the color of a ripe tomato. You didn't answer—you couldn't—and your silence was answer enough.

Sunday let out a soft, low chuckle. The sound was like wind chimes in a distant garden—pleasant, warm, and utterly devastating to your sanity. He raised his hand, and before you could react, his thumb brushed lightly against the corner of your lips, wiping away a small smear of blood you'd missed.

The touch was featherlight. Gentle. Intimate in a way that made the air around you feel thick and heavy.

"You know," he said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt, "I've seen many reactions to my presence. Flustered words, awed silence, even a few fainting spells. But a nosebleed?" His smile widened, just a fraction. "That's a first."

"I wasn't—I didn't mean to—it's just—" You were flailing, grasping for excuses, each word more pathetic than the last.

Sunday tilted his head, eyes dancing with amusement. "Just what?"

"Just—the lighting! The chandelier! It's too bright—" you gestured wildly at the ceiling, as if the crystal monstrosity above could somehow take the blame for your humiliating predicament.

"The chandelier?" He looked up, then back at you, one brow arched elegantly. "The same chandelier that's been hanging here for the past three centuries without causing anyone a single nosebleed?"

"Maybe... I'm... sensitive?"

"To light?"

"Uh uhm— Yes!"

-

"Or perhaps," he leaned in again, just a fraction closer, "you're sensitive to me."

Your brain short-circuited. There was no response. None. Not a single coherent thought left in your skull.

Sunday laughed softly—a sound that was warm, unguarded, and completely at odds with his usual composed demeanor. He reached over, gently took the handkerchief from your hand, folded it neatly, and tucked it back into your pocket with careful precision.

"Keep it," he said, his voice gentler now, almost fond. "For future emergencies. When you find yourself... overwhelmed."

Then he stepped back, inclining his head in a polite farewell. But just as he turned to leave, he paused.

"Oh, and one more thing," he added, glancing over his shoulder at you. "You should know—" His lips curved into a smile that was equal parts elegant and dangerously charming. "—I find that blush very becoming on you. So don't worry too much about it."

And with that, he walked away, leaving you frozen in place, clutching the handkerchief that smelled like him, with a nose that was still faintly tingling and a heart that had completely stopped functioning.

That night, only one thought echoed in your head:

I got a nosebleed because a man ran his fingers through his hair. And he said I looked cute.

His Love Language is Actions and Acts of Service, Not Words

Kite isn't the type to shower you with poetic declarations. He's never been good with flowery speeches—they feel hollow to him, like empty gestures. Instead, he shows his love through what he does.

He'll notice your favorite tea is running low and buy it without being asked. He'll fix the loose hinge on your door before you even realize it's broken. He'll walk on the side of the path closest to the forest, shielding you from any potential danger.

"You don't have to do that," you'd told him once, when he'd silently taken your heavy backpack and slung it over his own shoulder.

"I know." He'd glanced at you, a small rare smile tugging at his lips. "But I want to."

His Honesty is Brutal, But Never Cruel

Kite doesn't sugarcoat things. If you ask for his opinion, he'll give it—honestly, directly, without embellishment. But there's a gentleness underneath the bluntness. He never says things to hurt you, only to help you grow.

"That outfit doesn't suit you," he'd said once, flatly.

You'd blinked, taken aback. "Oh. Okay."

"The colors are wrong for your complexion. But the one you wore last week—the green one—that looked good."

You'd stared at him, caught between offense and amusement. "Was that a compliment?"

"It was an observation." He'd paused, then added, softer, "You looked beautiful in it."

He's Surprisingly Patient

For a man who spends his life tracking dangerous creatures, Kite has an almost endless well of patience—when it comes to you.

He'll wait while you tie your shoelaces for the third time. He'll listen to your rambling stories without interrupting. He'll teach you the same skill a dozen times, never once showing frustration.

"You're not annoyed?" you'd asked once, after he'd patiently explained how to identify animal tracks for the fifth time.

"Why would I be?"

"Because I keep forgetting."

He'd shrugged, his gaze steady. "You'll remember when you're ready. I'm not going anywhere."

His Quiet Moments are the Most Precious

Kite is a man of few words, but his silences speak volumes.

When you sit together in comfortable quiet, watching the sunset or listening to the rain, you feel his presence like a steady anchor. He doesn't need to fill the silence with chatter—he's content just to be near you.

"Do you ever get bored?" you'd asked once, during one of those long, quiet evenings.

"Of what?"

"Of this. Of me just... sitting here."

He'd turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. Then, softly, he'd said, "I've spent my whole life chasing things that run. Being still with you is the most peaceful I've ever felt."

He's Protective, But Not Possessive

Kite trusts you completely. He knows you're capable, strong, and more than able to take care of yourself. But that doesn't stop him from watching your back—silently, unobtrusively, always ready to step in if needed.

"You don't have to protect me, you know" you'd said once, during a particularly dangerous hunt.

"I know." He'd stepped in front of you anyway. "But I want to."

You'd sighed, shaking your head. "You're impossible."

"And yet you stay."

He Remembers Everything - like, literally every single detail about you

Every detail you've ever mentioned, every passing thought, every half-formed wish—Kite files them all away in his mind.

"You mentioned that book once," he'd say, handing you a worn copy. "I found it in a village market. Thought you might like it."

You'd stare at the book, stunned. You'd only mentioned it in passing, months ago. "How do you remember these things?"

"I pay attention." He'd shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "When it comes to you, I pay attention."

Scenario:

The campfire crackled softly between them, casting dancing shadows across the forest clearing. Kite sat across from you, his back against a fallen log, his eyes half-closed as he listened to the sounds of the night.

You were supposed to be tracking a rare beast—a creature that had been terrorizing a nearby village. But the trail had gone cold, and you'd decided to make camp for the night.

"I'm sorry," you said, breaking the comfortable silence.

He opened one eye. "For what?"

"For slowing us down. If I were a better tracker, we'd have found it by now."

Kite sat up, his gaze steady. "You're not slowing us down. You're learning."

"That's just a nice way of saying I'm bad at this."

"No." He shook his head, his voice firm. "It's a way of saying that every expert was once a beginner. You're patient. You're observant. You're getting better every day."

You looked away, your cheeks warming. "You're too kind."

"I'm honest." He reached over, his hand resting on yours for a brief moment. "There's a difference."

The touch was brief—barely a second—but it sent a warmth spreading through your chest.

"Tell me something," you said, changing the subject. "Why did you become a Hunter?"

He was silent for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the fire. "I wanted to find something."

"What?"

"A purpose." He looked at you, his eyes soft in the firelight. "I think I found it."

The end (not yet)

Are you still here? Uhmmm... there is still a small sequel

Warning: against

He's gone now.

The forest is still, and the fire has long since burned out. I sit alone in the clearing where we once sat together, and the silence is so loud it hurts.

Kite died in a place I couldn't reach, fighting a battle I couldn't help him win. They told me he was brave. They told me he fought until the very end. They told me he didn't suffer.

But I know better.

I know him. I know how his brow would furrow when he was worried, how his hand would reach for his weapon at the first sign of danger, how he'd always—always—put himself between me and the threat.

He died protecting someone. That's who he was. That's who he'll always be.

I still find his things scattered around the house. A half-finished letter on the desk. A jacket draped over the chair, smelling of earth and pine. A cup of tea waiting to be poured.

And every night, I sit by the window and wait. Because some part of me—the part that refuses to accept the truth—still expects to see him walking up the path, his silhouette dark against the setting sun, his smile crooked and tired and so achingly familiar.

But the path stays empty.

The silence stays heavy.

And I stay here, holding onto the memory of a man who taught me that love isn't about grand gestures or poetic words. It's about the small things. The quiet moments. The steady presence of someone who chooses to stay, even when the world is falling apart.

I love you, Kite. Always

_______________________________________________________________

The Phantom Troupe had known Chrollo Lucifer for years. They had seen him as a cold, ruthless, calculating leader who could order a massacre without blinking once. They had seen him calm in the face of death, unshaken by betrayal, unmoved by the chaos that swirled around him like a second skin.

But recently, something had shifted.

It was small things at first. The way he'd pause mid-sentence, a faint smile tugging at his lips for no apparent reason. The way he'd check his phone more often than usual, his eyes softening when he read a mysterious message. The way he'd disappear for a few hours without any explanations, returning with a lightness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"The boss has been acting strange," Nobunaga stated one evening, leaning against the wall of their hideout. "Did anyone else notice?"

Feitan grunted, not looking up from sharpening his blade. "Not my business."

"It's always our business if it's about the boss," Phinks countered, crossing his arms. "If he's distracted, it could affect the Troupe."

"He's not distracted." Machi's voice was flat, but her eyes flickered with something like curiosity. "He's... softer. I've seen it. When he thinks no one's watching, his expression changes."

"Soft?" Nobunaga snorted. "Chrollo? Soft?"

"Don't be dense, Nobu." Shalnark's voice came from behind his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "I've been analyzing his behavior patterns for the past three weeks. He's been spending more time away from the hideout, his communication patterns have shifted, and -” He paused, a grin spreading across his face. "—he's been buying flowers."

Silence.

"Flowers?" Shizuku repeated, her voice flat with disbelief.

"Flowers," Shalnark confirmed. "Specifically, a bouquet of white roses, every three days, from a florist in the commercial district."

"That's..." Nobunaga trailed off, trying to process the information.

"That's insane," Phinks finished for him.

-

The Troupe decided, collectively and without official vote, that they needed to investigate.

"I'll tail him," Pakunoda offered, her voice calm and measured. "I can read his memories if I touch him. But I don't think he'd appreciate that."

"He'd kill you," Feitan said flatly.

"He'd try."

"That's not a risk we should take," Machi interjected. "We just need to watch. See who he's meeting. What he's doing."

"I can monitor his phone," Shalnark said, already tapping away. "Track his movements, his messages, and -”

"Don't." Chrollo's voice came from the doorway, calm and amused. "I know about you."

The Troupe froze. Chrollo stood there, leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile on his lips. He looked... happy. Genuinely happy.

"Boss," Phinks said, recovering first. "We were just—"

"Gossiping about me?" Chrollo raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered."

"We're not gossiping," Kortopi said quickly. "We're... concerned."

"Concerned." Chrollo's smile widened. "You think I'm compromised."

"We think you're acting different," Machi corrected. "That's all."

Chrollo was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed off the doorframe, walking into the room with an unhurried grace. His eyes swept over each of them, and for a moment, something vulnerable flickered in their depths—something they'd never seen before.

"You're not wrong," he said finally. "I have been... different. But not in a way that threatens the Troupe."

"Then what is it?" Phinks demanded.

Chrollo's smile turned secretive. "I'll tell you when I'm ready. For now—" He paused, pulling his phone from his pocket. His expression softened again, that same warmth he'd been wearing for weeks. "—I have somewhere to be."

He left without another word.

-

The moment the door closed behind him, the Troupe exploded.

"He's definitely seeing someone," Nobunaga declared, slamming his fist on the table. "I've never seen him smile like that. Never."

"Could be a trap," Feitan said, but even he sounded unconvinced.

"A trap that makes him buy flowers?" Shalnark snorted. "I don't think so. This is personal."

"Who could be with him?" Phinks wondered aloud. "I mean, the boss is... the boss. He's untouchable. Unreachable. Who could possibly—"

"Someone patient," Machi cut in. "Someone who doesn't try to manipulate him. Someone who sees him as a person, not a weapon."

"That's..." Phinks paused. "Actually, really specific."

Machi shrugged. "It's what he needs."

Pakunoda, who had been silent throughout the conversation, finally spoke. "I touched him earlier. By accident. I didn't mean to, but—" She paused, her expression unreadable. "—I saw something."

"What?" Everyone leaned in.

"He was thinking about her." Pakunoda's voice was soft. "A woman. (H/C) hair, kind eyes. She smiled at him, and he—" She stopped, shaking her head. "I've never seen him feel that way about anyone. It was... overwhelming."

The room fell silent.

"So it's real," Shalnark said quietly. "The boss has a crush."

"A crush?" Nobunaga laughed. "The boss? The cold-blooded leader of the Phantom Troupe? Has a crush?"

"Stranger things have happened," Machi said, almost smiling.

-

They found Chrollo a few days later, sitting in a quiet café with you discussing a book.

The Troupe watched from a distance—disguised, subtle, careful not to draw attention. You and Chrollo were laughing about something, your head tilted back, your face lit up with genuine joy. And Chrollo—the same Chrollo who had ordered the massacre of countless people, who had stolen and killed without hesitation—was looking at you like you were the most precious treasure in the world.

"I can't believe it," Phinks muttered. "He's actually... soft."

"She normal," Feitan observed. "Not a Nen user."

"She doesn't know what he does." Shizuku voice was flat,unbothered but there was something like concern beneath it. "Does she?"

"Probably not," Shalnark said. "And that's why he likes her. She sees him as just a man."

They watched as Chrollo reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. You smiled, and he smiled back—a real smile, unguarded and warm.

"We should go," Pakunoda said quietly. "We've seen enough."

"But—"

"Let him have this." Her eyes were soft. "He deserved it."

-

The Troupe never confronted Chrollo about you directly.

But they made their peace with it in their own way. Nobunaga stopped joking about Chrollo's "softness." Phinks stopped questioning his absences. Machi started leaving flowers on Chrollo's desk—a quiet acknowledgment of what she'd seen.

And Chrollo, in his own way, acknowledged their understanding.

"Thank you," he said one night, when the Troupe was gathered. "For not asking."

"We didn't ask because we know you," Shalnark replied. "You'd tell us if it was important."

"It is important." Chrollo's voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "She is important. But she's also... separate. She doesn't know who I really am. And I'd like to keep it that way."

"We understand," Pakunoda said. "We'll protect her. Even if she doesn't know it."

Chrollo's smile was genuine. "Thank you."

-

The Troupe kept your secret, and Chrollo's.

They never approached you, never made their presence known. But they watched, in their own quiet way. If anyone ever posed a threat to you, they would act before Chrollo even knew there was a problem.

"She's good for him," Nobunaga said one day, watching Chrollo leave to meet you.

"She makes him human," Machi agreed.

"Let's hope she never finds out the truth," Feitan said. "Or we might have to kill her."

The others turned to stare at him.

"What?" he said, his voice flat. "You were all thinking it."

"We were not," Pakunoda said, her voice firm. "We were thinking about how to protect her. Not how to kill her."

Feitan grunted but said nothing.

"What matters," Shalnark said, "is that the boss is happy. And we've never seen him happy before. That's... new."

"It's good," Kortopi added. "He deserves it."

-

Chrollo never told you who he really was.

But sometimes, late at night, when the world was quiet and you were asleep beside him, he would look at your face and feel something he'd never felt before: a fear of losing you.

"One day," he whispered to you, his voice barely audible in the darkness, "you might find out who I am. And when you do, you might leave."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"But until then, I'll cherish every moment I have with you."

He didn't know that the Troupe had already made a pact. If you ever found out and tried to leave, they would stop you—not to hurt you, but to keep Chrollo from shattering ever again.

Because for all his power, all his ruthlessness, Chrollo Lucifer was still a man who could be broken.