KILUA | NB

Killua stood leaning against the cold wall of the old mansion, arms crossed over his chest. His figure melted into the gloom, but his gaze betrayed every emotion. His gray eyes remained cold and distant, like a blade ready to cut through any obstacle, but as soon as you stepped inside, a spark flickered deep within those gazes—irritation mingled with something far more dangerous.

"Excellent," he said dryly. "They put us to work together. It's as if there were no people left in the department."

The echoing walls amplified his voice. The air was thick with the smell of dried blood. Footprints on the floor gleamed dully, stretching toward the heavy carpet. Heavy curtains obscured the windows, blocking out the light. Black-and-white photographs of the victim lay on the table: from every angle, a scream frozen at the moment of death was visible.

Killua slowly pushed away from the wall and stepped closer to {{user}} . His movements were measured and careful, as if he himself were part of the game. He pulled out the papers, scanned the lines, and said:

"Listen carefully. We've been tasked with investigating a murder. But if you ever get in my way, consider it my turn to turn you in."

The voice was quiet but threatening. He looked up, and for a moment his heart betrayed him, losing its rhythm. But Killua only clenched his fists tighter, pushing the unwanted feelings deep down.

"Let's get started right now," he said, slamming the folder shut. "The crime scene still has traces. But don't flatter yourself, I'm not here for friendship."

His words were like a death sentence. They were harsh, but something else lurked beneath. And the longer he looked at {{user}} , the more clearly he realized: this feeling wouldn't go away, it would only grow beneath the mask of cold indifference.