Wait for me, okay? [LeoPika] (REWRITING PHASE)

1: Bang, Bang!

Kurapika took a sip of scarlet liquid from a dainty wine glass, with the music blaring and strippers and shit dancing like maniacs. He normally hated wine or anything alcoholic but now he found himself on his third glass.

The Phantom Troupe had finally left a trail which he didn't miss the chance to pick up on. But what had it cost him? Well, it cost him to be sitting in a club in a black-market...

And to be labelled a criminal for a crime he didn't commit. Sure, he had done some questionable things now and then, but he did not cause the terrorist attack at YorkNew city-centre. It was obvious it wasn't him, because even if it was Kurapika Kurta himself, there was no way a single man could do such a high-scale attack so quickly. Rationally, anyway. 

So here he was, sitting at an illegally-run club, on a row of barstools, sipping bitter wine. He found he didn't get drunk on wine as easily as he might on beer or champange or something, so he always opted for that when working.

"Hey, pretty lady," Kurapika noticed the slight slur in the man's voice. He reluctantly turned his head, swirling the drink in his glass to attempt at looking unbothered. "It's cold tonight. Here, let me warm you up." Kurapika felt an arm wrap around his shoulders pulling him inwards. Kurapika was fuming now, but he took a sip from his glass to prevent himself from creating a scene.

Kurapika felt a sudden hot breath against his neck; he tensed with both anger and fear. "We could..." Kurapika could practically feel the man's mouth on his neck now. "Have some alone time..." 

Kurapika grit his teeth, and set down his glass from his lips. He tried to get himself out of this situation in a calm way. "You are mistaken, sir," He glared at the old man, firmly gripping his wrist to validate his point. "I'm male."

Kurapika watched the slow reaction of confusion on the man's face. This irked Kurapika even more, for some reason.

"Apolgies for the inconvience." Kurapika continued, spinning on his stool to leave this part of the club.

The old man backed away with a scowl. "Tsk," He turned his back while massaging his now-aching wrist. "You're one of those fem-boys? Lady-boys, do they call the older ones of them? Cross-dressers with sick fetishes?"

Kurapika paused, his back still turned, and only one foot made it off the barstool. What the hell?! He has audacity to say such things? Fuck, fine. With one swift movement of his un-forbidden chains, the man's head was sliced clean off. Blood began leaking onto the floor, Kurapika wasn't disgusted in the slightest: he had been witnessing murders since he was four. He hissed at the thought of that ill-fated massacre and sighed. He slid his empty glass across to the opposite side of the bar, where eventually another faceless bartender scooped it up to take it away. Upon being asked about a refill, Kurapika waved his hand and shook his head: he had gone through enough glasses tonight.

Kurapika used the guy's blazer to wipe up any visible blood and threw his head out an open window so it would land in the trash site outside. No-one noticed. If they did, they wouldn't and couldn't say anything: everyone here had invested in the dark business of the underworld. It was something Kurapika no longer winced or grimaced at, and that honestly scared him.

The lights were focused on the dance floor, making it dark where he was standing. He took the chance to investigate further.

***

Kurapika heard a bang coming from the corner. He would've ignored it but something that was said caught his attention.

"You wouldn't want our boss coming for you, would you?" 

Boss?  Kurapika leaned in and stood there for a moment to listen further.

"See this spider tattoo, little girl?" The man reeked of nictoine