HxH : Threads of Ash (Hunter X Hunter FF)

The knife came from nowhere.

One second, Kaito was crouched behind a rusted drum, ears pricked, pulse steady; the next, steel flashed in the dark, slicing through air with a whisper, missing his ear by inches.

He dropped flat, breath punched out of him.

A second knife thunked into the drum above his head, handle quivering.

Laughter peeled through the alley, light and mean.

"Well, well. The little shadow."

Kaito rolled to his side, fingers digging into cold gravel, heart hammering like a fist in his ribs. He knew that voice Renji. Thirteen. Fast. Mean as glass. Always traveled with two others.

Kaito's eyes flicked right, left. Saw them.

Sura, small and wiry, knuckles cracked and bleeding. Ban, taller, a blunt instrument with teeth. Three silhouettes against the glow of a barrel fire, grins sharp, eyes bright.

He couldn't fight them. He couldn't run.

But something in his chest lifted, sharp and hot the memory of warmth under skin, the flicker he'd been teasing to life in the quiet hours.

His aura. His shield.

Now or never.

"C'mon, little rat," Renji called, stepping closer, blade flipping easy in his hand. "Heard you got fast feet. Let's see 'em."

Ban laughed, a low grunt. Sura kicked a can, sending it skittering with a crash.

Kaito pushed to his knees, chest tight, mouth dry.

Breathe.

He pictured it: the thin film under his skin, the quiet thrum, the press outward.

Ten. Hold it. Keep it.

The air around him shimmered faintly. A pressure settled over his skin, buzzing like angry flies. His vision narrowed, dark at the edges, sharp in the center.

Renji didn't notice. None of them did.

They only saw a skinny kid, crouched, trembling.

The first strike came fast too fast.

Renji's knife slashed down, catching Kaito's shoulder, dragging hot fire across skin. The aura flared, dulled the edge, but not enough. Not yet.

Kaito hissed, rolling sideways. His shoulder screamed. Wet warmth bloomed down his arm.

Sura lunged in with a shout, fist swinging. Kaito ducked low, felt the punch skim the air above his head. His heart crashed against his ribs, his legs burned as he pushed forward, under, through.

Ban's arm shot out, grabbing for him.

Kaito twisted slipped half-fell, half-pulled free, the world a blur of flashing limbs and roaring blood.

He hit the ground hard, palms scraping gravel, knees jarring. His breath rattled out of him in a sharp gasp.

No. Move.

He kicked out, caught Sura's shin, not enough to hurt, just enough to stagger. Scrambled forward. Felt Renji's fingers claw at the back of his shirt tore free ran.

Ten pulsed at his back like wings. His skin shivered with each step, aura snapping on and off, wild, untrained, desperate.

Behind him, shouts. Fast footsteps. The scrape of metal.

Kaito didn't look back.

The alley twisted left, then right, narrowing to a crack between crumpled fences. Kaito shot through, scraping his elbows, catching the slice of cold metal against skin.

He spilled into an open lot, dark, empty, the ruins of old shipping crates scattered like bones. His chest heaved. His legs threatened to fold.

He dropped behind a crate, curling in, arms wrapped tight. Blood dripped down his arm in slow, sticky trails.

His first real cut. His first real fight.

His first real survival.

The air smelled like rust and smoke. His shoulder throbbed, alive with pain. His aura flickered faintly, a dying pulse under his skin.

And Kaito grinned, teeth bared, a raw animal joy rising in his throat.

He waited.

Long minutes.

The footsteps never came.

They'd lost him. Given up. Decided he wasn't worth the chase.

His body sagged, trembling, shaking loose the last scraps of tension.

Carefully, Kaito peeled back the torn fabric at his shoulder, peered at the gash. It was shallow lucky, or maybe not luck at all. Maybe the aura had softened it, thinned the edge just enough.

His fingers trembled as they traced the wound. His breath came rough, shallow, hitching between soft, shaken laughs.

He'd survived.

By instinct, by Ten, by sheer reckless push he'd survived.

The moon hung low, a smudge behind smoke.

Kaito sat back against the crate, knees drawn up, arm cradled carefully. His pulse slowed, steadied. His mind drifted.

In the space behind his eyes, he pictured the knife's arc. The flicker of aura. The blur of motion.

He replayed it, again and again, dissecting it, learning it. Not as fear. Not as trauma. As data.

His blood was still sticky on his skin. His shoulder ached. His body screamed for rest, for food, for warmth.

But underneath, deep under the bruises and cuts, something small and fierce burned bright.

I can do this.

Not perfectly. Not yet. But better, stronger, sharper each time.

The night stretched quiet around him, broken only by the crackle of far-off fires, the occasional clash of voices.

Kaito leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, mouth curved in a thin, tired smile.

His first cut. His first fight.

Not his last.