A/N: Hi guys! This wip has been sitting on my laptop for a very long time. It's been years, I guess. And I decided to just post this even when my original plan is to turn this into a multi chap. So, here's the thing: this fic is open for adoption. Just pm me if you are willing to continue this or to write a fanfic based on this plot. I'll just delete this afterwards. I can share some my drafts and notes of this fic. Give this baby the love it deserves. (It hurts to let this go but my interests have really changed now. I still love KuroKura, it's just not my priority at the moment. I wouldn't be able to devote as much effort and time as I had before.)

Scarlet eyes:

A genetic mutation that is rumored to exist solely on the Kuruta Clan from the small kingdom of Rukuso. It is said to be passed down to male Kuruta children only once every 300 years. The bearer of the eyes would have attributes deviating from a normal human being such as: a.) Red coloring of the irises that change shades in relation to the emotions presented of the owner b.) Rapid cell regeneration c.) Decreased melanin production d.) Excessive secretion of adrenaline during life threatening situation. Another distinguishing physical appearance besides their crimson eyes, is their golden hair and a feminine physique.

There had not been any concrete evidence presented to support this rare occurrence, not even the Kuruta Clan had any records of its authenticity, but urban legends stated that the Scarlet Eyes reigns as the rarest and most expensive treasure to ever exist; with a living owner worth hundred times more than the crimson eyes alone.

Chrollo paced his strides against the carpeted hallways, relishing his midnight excursion bathed in the silver glow of the moon. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, pausing before the ceiling-high glass windows. He noted the brown to red patches that crowded his white shirt, crimson splatters on his pale face; none of them belonged to him.

In this sequestered mansion, he was the grim reaper of the night; yielding a suppressed gun, a poisoned knife and the make-shift weapons he procured impromptu as his scythe of death. He was on his last streak of collection, down to two living humans he had yet to take.

He had the whole night to enjoy this solitude, a night where he could wreak havoc by himself, an opportunity that might not happen any sooner, given the nature of his societal status. But tonight, he was simply Chrollo Lucilfer, the man who had particular obsession with beauty, the identity of the Lucilfer Boss tossed aside.

He had time to marvel the beauty of the paintings and other artifacts that surrounded this mansion, stopping on his walk to have a better look at them, appreciating them for the last time. He knew the original owner of that house, Don Carlo Bonello, had quite similar tastes with him, that sometimes there would be scarcity, because only one of them could obtain their target of fascination.

Acquire what you desire, he thought.

Because once his eyes had caught on their new attraction, it would turn into an obsession. A temporary obsession that would haunt him for days, or weeks or months; until he had acquired them. Though this particular fixation had lasted for five years, and maybe even more. And he was willing to do anything just to be satiated from this thirst.

The thirst to own the Scarlet Eyes and its owner more than anything else.

He had won against him in the end anyway.

His brief musings were halted as the humongous ebony door was presented before him. He clutched the knob, anticipating that it was unlocked. He stepped inside the main bedroom. The whole place had lax security, confident of maintaining its zero trespassers. Marco Bonello, the Don's nephew and new owner of the estate, had probably gambled everything on the mansion's impossibly tracked location. An obstacle that Chrollo Lucilfer had overcome too easily.

Equipping his steps with caution, he sauntered his way towards the queen-sized bed in the midst of the room. He made no waste of time, placing the mouth of the suppressed gun directly on the flesh of the man's forehead lying on the bed, who was, at the moment, journeying inside his dream land, far away from the threat of his life that was happening in reality.

He gained a reaction from the man when he disengaged the safe of the pistol. There were slight movements, some groaning, scratching, spewing light curses to no one, and finally, he opened his eyes, which widened right away as soon as he was aware of his situation.

"Wh―"

The muzzle of the silencer was pressed deeper on his flesh, "I will spare your life and your wife's if you would tell me the exact location of the slave you inherited."

"S-sla..slave?" the man inquired, " W-w…we don't have s-…slaves here," he resumed.

Chrollo discreetly eyed the light movements under the blanket.

"It'd be smarter if you don't do that," said he, tipping his head to point his moving hand," I doubt you had ever used that gun for moving targets anyway. It'd be stupid of you to assume you could outsmart me with my field of expertise." Another hand shifted on the farther end of the bed, "And calling for your guards would be pointless. They are all lying cold on the floor at the moment, bathing in their own blood."

"W-who―" The man was now shivering, apparent fear was plaguing his whole system as the face of recognition dawned into his features. "You― You're the Lucilfer Boss!"

His extra-sized body shifted down the floor; he slid and fell face first on the floor in his graceless haste. Yet he persevered on raising his upper body to be on his knees. His hands were strung so tightly together, depending the safety of his life in them.

"Please," he begged, as his knees rubbed against the carpet in his attempt to get closer to Chrollo, "Please, not that slave. I-I'll just pay you! One million dollars? No, t-two! How about two million!" His head tipped up the highest it could, leaning his hands on the Boss's right hip. "H-how much is it that you want?!"

He was staring down at Marco Bonello, observing the desperate creases of his face, the redness of his hands as he plead for his life. He was really clueless of the measly amount he gained compared to the real worth of the Scarlet Eyes he had in his hands. The Don had really thought this through, he had predicted the possible action of his nephew: auction the Scarlet Eyes to the black market, dead or alive, depending on how the slave would respond to him ―which would definitely result to the slave's death. He would be wasting the priceless treasure that the Don had carefully hidden from the public. So he masked his intentions of hiding the slave and perhaps, dispose of his traitorous nephew in the process with the promise of inheritance which he would not dare to question.

Ignorance was indeed a bliss that Chrollo would happily elude.

The Bonello Boss was indeed an amusing rival for Chrollo, that even after his death, he still had hands playing for him in their little game, albeit his last turns were just childish pranks to delay Chrollo's inevitable victory.

Though he couldn't help but feel a thin strain of jealousy towards this man who gained the possession of The Scarlet Eyes before him, a pampered loser who didn't deserve it.

Chrollo caught the slightest of whimper coming from the other side of the bed, yet he remained impassive. The muzzle of the gun kissed his forehead, eliciting a muffled shriek from Marco as his hands limped on his sides.

"I-I can't have my inheritance if you take him away from me," Marco begged.

Mercy for his life was his greatest desperation at that moment, mercy, that the Lucilfer Boss did not possess in him.

"Which shares the same fate if I were to end your life right now," Chrollo replied, matter-of-factly but his impatience was gradually surfacing. This man would persist on his monetary bargain, and he was getting bored of his recurring pathetic pleas. He then eyed the bed behind him where he directed his pistol, "Or should I begin with your wife over there?"

There were shuffling of sheets, hurried soles of feet moved against the carpet. Chrollo followed the direction of these strides, to see the woman standing beside the body mirror. Neither of them were taking notice of Marco's maddened taunts towards his wife for her sudden actions. Instead, she gripped tightly of the wooden sides, giving them a vigorous push until it revealed a dark opening.

Her moistened eyes were centered on Chrollo, "He's here," said she, trembling as she swallowed on her tears. "J-just go down and you'll see him in the cell room."

Chrollo eyed the darkness behind the mirror. One of the guards did tell him ―in exchange of his life which he ended the moment he gathered the information― that he heard the couple talking about 'important treasure' they had hidden in a secret room. None of the servants were even aware of the slave's existence in that mansion. It must be part of the deal that the Don had given them, because it would have more risk if more people were aware of him.

Chrollo slid his eyes towards the woman, "I believe I would be needing keys for that cell room."

She had a couple of deep breaths before she stabilized her breathing to speak once again, "It's hanging on his neck."

The Lucilfer Boss then turned his head down until he spotted the small metallic piece hanging on Marco's neck. The anger from Marco Bonello was more palpable in the air, his eyes were directed to his wife who just betrayed him. He lifted the lace, preserving the pistol on Marco's forehead until he had secured the key on his hand. Chrollo then relaxed his hand to his side, allowing his captive to move without restraints who lunged to his wife right away. He led his footsteps towards the secret passage.

"Why did you tell him?!" Marco shouted, as Chrollo had seen him grasp his wife's arms.

"What?! You'd rather die for that freak? Sorry, but I fucking won't. You're going to kill him anyway after that six-month deal of hiding him. "

"How are we gonna pay our debts now?! The lawyer would never give us our money without that brat! "

"Well, you figure it out! I've had enough looking at his creepy eyes! HE'S A MONSTER! A DEMON! Only weirdos would want―" The wife shouted halfway, noticing Chrollo as he paused his steps before the entrance, bringing back his attention to them.

"W-what?" The woman asked. Her husband had released his grip on her as he stared at Chrollo with her, "We have given you the slave already, so we're spared now, right?"

"I did say that," He shrugged. " But I didn't specify how long it would be." He lifted the gun once again, aiming the middle of Marco's forehead and shot him right away even before he was able to scream his last words. Another shot was given to the head of his wife, who attempted to run away.

Chrollo turned his heels and began his trip down the narrow stairs. Darkness filled his surroundings, but the puny light given by his lighter was enough to see his way down. Reaching the last step of the stairs, he was met by a thin sheet of moonlight crawling in the floor of the basement. Chrollo extinguished the fire from his lighter, focusing his attention on the cell room at the end of the hallway.

Behind the metal bars, sitting beneath the only window of the room, was a boy. He sat there unmoved, leaning his back on the wall, with his golden head hidden behind his arms, knees folded. Chrollo might've been fooled of the boy's realistic façade of deep slumber. But he knew too well of the boy's bodily instincts and keen alertness of his surroundings activated even in his sleep.

He maintained his feigned innocence as he opened the cell door and trudged forward the room. Only the soles of his shoes against the stone floor was heard, until Chrollo was but a meter away from him. The last thing he saw was a glint of a glass and those beautiful pair of red eyes.

Those eyes were floating rubies in this moonlit room, dancing with the golden threads of his hair as he moved with adrenaline-induced speed. The more intense the emotion, the more beautiful the glow of his crimson eyes would be ―different shades for different emotions, as what the rumors said. Not even the red beryl, a thousand times more valuable than gold, could be compared to its rare exquisiteness.

The perfect bait to the eyes of Chrollo that he was almost reeled in towards the sharpest point of the shattered glass, not that he cared if it was aimed towards a vital organ, or that the threatening contact would be dealt in a lesser time ―probably in a matter of seconds― if he moved towards its direction.

It was something he could compare into an unhealthy vice, losing himself in the indulgence of the sight.

A ripping sound rang in his ear, the boy had slashed his shirt. Chrollo dodged the threatening edge of the glass at the last minute, though the boy had still managed to slip a shallow gash on his flesh, inflicting a quick and dull ache on Chrollo. But it would have punctured his liver if he had not evaded on time.

Chrollo stepped back, only to be assaulted by another thrust towards his chest. He stopped the boy, capturing his wrist and chopping the back of his hand until the shattered glass fell on the floor, together with the blotches of blood trailing down from the boy's palm.

The boy tried wriggling away from Chrollo's grasp, concurrently finding ways to land a blow on his attacker, but Chrollo twisted his wrist to momentarily halt his movements. He used that opportunity to bring the hands of his captive on his back. His slim wrists were easily caged with just one hand. Continuous wriggling came from his captive, legs moved in every direction in a desperate struggle of inflicting pain on him.

"You are not Marco!" The young one roared, "Who are you?!" He was struggling to face his captor, to have a glimpse of his face and determine his identity. But it would be impossible for the boy with the dim light of the room that the moon had provided them. "What do you want from me?!"

Chrollo ignored his angered inquiries. Too soon to reveal his identity to the boy. He procured the handy syringe from his pocket. More thrashing from the slave ensued as he injected it on his arm. He waited until his movements had weakened, and when the anesthetic had taken its full effects on his petite body, he carried the boy. He was light, as light as he could remember. It didn't feel like holding a growing boy in his arms. He dangled his body on his shoulder.

Once again, Chrollo pulled out his lighter, going up to the main bedroom.

He was not fond of the smell of gasoline, but it was the best he could procure in this mansion. Staring at the couple one last time, before he threw the lighter on them.

The whole mansion was being engulfed by the fire.

The sounds of all kinds of materials being burned to crisp were all over the place. A century old tree was also caught on the big fire that Chrollo had created, falling down to the ground. It was a beautiful spectacle, truth to be told. He had liked campfires, with the fire as the only thing you could see in that night. He also liked the natural warmth it gave you just like this one.

After relishing the sight, he turned his heels and opened the door of the car he rented. He placed the baggage on his shoulder in the passenger seat.

He crouched down as he allowed himself to observe his sleeping form, constantly mesmerized by him. He reached for his golden hair, pushing them aside as he caressed his bony face.

Chrollo was completely drawn to this beauty.

He had finicky tastes, peculiar mostly, that the majority couldn't comprehend the splendor of his interests. This boy was nowhere near the definition of beauty if he were to be viewed by others through his physical appearance: abnormally thin, bordering skeletal, loose and filthy clothes worn for months at most, crooked haircut. A slave. A dispensable object for most, suited to sleep with the dusts, pests and other dirt.

This was the beauty he had obsessed himself for more than five years, and now, finally, he belonged to him completely. The owner of the Scarlet Eyes that had smitten him the moment he was made aware of its existence. It was worth all the effort he exerted just to find him. Thrill coursed through him as he thought of all the possible things to happen, all the amusement he'd have now that he was with him once again.

"Kurapika," he called despite the impossibility of a response, the name rolled so beautifully in his tongue.

Nothing could ever parallel the longing Chrollo had attached himself towards the Scarlet eyes; more so with its owner ―the five long years of wait for this reunion.

He pressed his feet on the gas, and began their journey to his mansion.

"Kurapika."

Black was all he could see. He felt weak. He felt heavy. He was conscious, but none of his surroundings were making sense. He was there, but his body felt distant. He couldn't command any of them, not even the meager movement of opening his eyes. Open, he thought fiercely. He had to see him with his own eyes. Open.

It was a blur of black and white and red when his lidded eyes opened halfway. Moving them upwards, he was met by the handsome face of a young man. Ebony hair and eyes, pale face under the moonlight.

Who are you? He asked in his thoughts.

Kurapika was twelve once again. He was back to his naïve, sweet and trusting self.

He remembered these strong hands well, carrying him with care. He remembered how he liked the security they gave him, the trust these hands had offered him, that trust which Kurapika would gladly accept and return. He remembered how his petite ones would find shelter on them to have warmth. He remembered the joy he felt acquiring a friend for the first time.

"Chrollo-nii…sa….n…" he managed to utter.

One moment he was the same kind-hearted lad who helped him, a blink, and he saw his bloodied face, his impassive expression as he took lives. A perfect replica of his visage of their last encounter five years ago.

These memories would always be vivid to him. Because he could never forget. He would never allow himself to forget his foolishness, his biggest mistake in life, trusting him.

Was this a dream? But maybe, even in this mirage, he could achieve his goal. He wouldn't be the powerless kid who was treated as an object to be possessed. He was his own person.

"Chrollo….Lucilfer…."

The man responded to his call, looking down on him.

He had the same face of preserved youth, the same deceitful face Kurapika had begun to loathe. All the anger he had pent up for the last five years were slowly resurfacing. He had to kill him. Wasn't that what had kept him going for the last five years? Move. He commanded his hands, but they remained immobile. MOVE. Another try, and it failed. A loosely clenched hand was all he could do, he closed his eyes.

He gritted his teeth, and uttered with half-lidded eyes, "…kill..you…"

But it was stopped when Chrollo began speaking, just staring ahead, "It wouldn't benefit any of us if you wasted your energy like that. What you need is rest, Kurapika."

Slowly, his consciousness escaped him. He allowed himself to show this vulnerable side of him for the last time.

"Welcome to your new cage princess―"

Because Kurapika vowed, when he woke up, when he lived in the reality once again, he would make sure to make the man pay for his sins.

"―and this time you will never be able to escape from me."