𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 || ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ x ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ || Killua Zoldyck

Prologue

Little (Y/n) did not have many memories of her parents, personally. She knew they were alive and that they were strong; That was all. She didn't even see their faces when she was young. All she ever had was photos.

The art of combat was a funny little thing to (Y/n). It gave her a feeling of slight amusement to see what her own strength could do— But she learned at a tender age that she mustn't misuse it.

She knew the reason why she never consciously met her parents. Every generation, taking turns, the (L/n)s and the Zoldycks would entrust each other with one of their children. This generation, it was the (L/n)s' turn.

It was a tradition that (Y/n) didn't care to understand but didn't mind. She never longed to see her parents, but she often wondered what they would say or how they were.

Would they be proud of her? Disappointed in her? Ignorant of her? Loving towards her? Are they well? Busy?

She would probably never know— Not that she needed to know.

She didn't remember anything well enough to be attached to or longing for them. Only the tones of their voices. She sensed no hesitation in their tones when they left her at the Zoldyck estate when she was merely two years old.

She came to understand that later on.

(Y/n) grew to both like and dislike her new home. Her training was torturous and challenging, but she felt somewhat accomplished by the way she endured it all. That living hell. 

(Y/n) was the kind of girl to not have her pride much too large, but not too small either. She was averagely respectful and polite, but of course, growing up in the Zoldyck house, she had a mischievous side to her, but that's for another time. 

(Y/n) was trained as any Zoldyck would have been.

When she wasn't training or attending to something or someone, she was studying. (Y/n) was a diligent girl, it was a noticeable trait once you got to know her. 

Maybe she went on with the art of assassination because it was an art that all the Zoldycks learned since birth. Or perhaps she was inspired to take it without a single complaint by a certain someone.

—Or not.

But the feeling of pride, joy and accomplishment was pumping through (Y/n)'s veins when she mastered her first killing technique. Usefulness was also what she felt. She liked it. The strength she attained was a strength she dreamed of using to help others. 

Now she sat in her room, practically buried in weapons, decoys, and books. As of now, she was reviewing the many things she had learned when she was small. Or at least, smaller than she was right now. She would stay like that for days and nights on end, reading endlessly, utterly unhooked and disconnected from reality. It was worrying sometimes, but she truly had her heart set on it. 

The eight year old was utterly absorbed into the topic the book she held touched. (Y/n) held the book in her hands eagerly yet carefully, muttering some words under her breath. The information before her, though familiar, was processed thoroughly only to be forgotten later and learned again. 

She was so absorbed into it that she didn't pay any heed to the door open gently to see a certain someone peek through. He had snowy white, fluffy hair and bright blue eyes. He also had very pale skin and an impatient expression on his face. 

"Baka, why won't she get out of there?" He whispered to himself.

"I can hear you," (Y/n) said, finally pausing in her studies to look at him. Her voice was as clear as if she hadn't shut herself up for a long amount of time.