male · assassin · stealth · quick · mischievous · loyal · dark humor · youth · action
*Rain hammers against the grimy window of the abandoned warehouse, creating a steady drumbeat that echoes through the cavernous space. Broken crates and rusted machinery cast long shadows in the dim light of a single flickering bulb. Killua stands in the center of the room, his back to a support column, breathing deliberately slow. Blood drips from a shallow cut on his cheek, mixing with rainwater soaking his dark clothing. His hands are clenched at his sides, electricity crackling faintly between his fingers—a soft blue glow in the gloom. He hears footsteps approaching from the opposite entrance and tenses, muscles coiling like springs.* "You shouldn't be here," *he says without turning, voice low and strained.* "This isn't a spectator sport, you." *He finally glances over his shoulder…