The sterile, cold air of the repurposed operating theater hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic and latent fury. Machi listened, her expression impassive, as the details of the forest operation were laid bare. The scale of the setback was unprecedented. Nine Spiders, six of their core fighters compromised: four severely wounded, one crippled, one dead. It was a rout disguised as a victory, the prize of Scarlet Eyes stained with their own blood. Chrollo's admission of 'carelessness' was a rare concession, a stone dropped into the pond of their collective pride, the ripples touching them all.
As Shalnark and Phinks entered, bandaged and bearing information, a sharp focus returned to the room.
"Did you figure it out?" Feitan's voice was a venomous hiss from his cot, his body a canvas of pain and impatience. "Information on that damn guy?"
Shalnark, ever the calm analyst amidst the storm of personalities, offered a placating smile. "Don't get worked up. We found a little." He detailed the predawn blimp, the link to the Sky Arena, and Kevin's trail—medical school, mafia employment, a brief stint under a Hunter. "He was invited by the Kurta. A hired blade, or perhaps something more."
The portrait that emerged was of a ghost with startling substance: educated, mobile, connected, and lethally competent.
"Find him. I'm going to kill him." Feitan's declaration was absolute, a vow carved from humiliation.
Shalnark remained neutral, presenting only the data. "His clear ties lead to Yorknew City mafia and that Hunter. Logic suggests he's heading there." He then presented the cold calculus. "I don't recommend pursuit. Our primary objective—the Scarlet Eyes—is secured. We have sustained significant operational damage."
It was the voice of reason, of the Troupe's strategic mind prioritizing survival and cohesion over the hot blood of vengeance.
All eyes turned to Chrollo. He sat quietly, a book closed in his lap, his gaze moving from Feitan's smoldering resentment to Shalnark's pragmatic frown, then to Uvogin, who cracked a fierce grin. "I want a rematch too… but if it's too much trouble, forget it." Even Uvogin, embodied passion, acknowledged the cost.
From his bed, Nobunaga added a weary, practical note. "I can't help right now."
The room waited. The decision hung in the balance between the insult to their power and the very real, weakened state of that power. It was a test not just of their next target, but of what the Phantom Troupe would prioritize in the wake of a scar.
Chrollo's fingers tapped lightly on his book's cover. The lesson of the 'Post-mortem Nen' was already etched; now came the response. Would they be ruled by the wound, or would they master it?
"Yorknew City is a nexus," Chrollo said finally, his voice soft yet filling the room. "Many threads converge there. Our business with the auction holders is still pending. And the source of this… interference… may yet be drawn there, to his allies."
He looked at Feitan, then at Shalnark, synthesizing the fury and the logic. "We do not hunt him. Not yet. We heal. We observe. Yorknew will be our stage once more. If he appears upon it, seeking the threads he has already tugged…" A faint, cold smile touched Chrollo's lips. "Then we shall be the curtain that falls."
It was not the direct hunt Feitan craved, but a patient, strategic re-engagement. The Troupe would not chase a ghost into the shadows. They would fortify their web and wait in the city of chaos, turning the site of their recent complication into a potential trap. The debt was noted, but its collection would be on their terms, at a time and place of their choosing.
Kevin regarded Pairo with a measured look. The boy's grief was a palpable, heavy cloak, yet beneath it, his mind was already functioning with a cold, tactical clarity. He's his father's son, Kevin thought, a flicker of respect tempering his earlier clinical assessment. This wasn't just a child screaming into the void; this was a survivor assessing the board.
"You're very rational," Kevin acknowledged, his tone approving. "That's the first and most necessary quality. Tell me his information. I'll have someone find him and arrange a rendezvous."
Rosana provided the details—a description, the likely route Kurapika had taken for his coming-of-age journey, his habits. Kevin absorbed it all, already mapping out the logistical paths in his mind. The Nostra Family's network, for all its unsettling courtesy, was now a tool he would use without hesitation.
"Consider it done," he said simply. He would task Light's people with the search; the mafia boss's inexplicable helpfulness would be leveraged to a practical end. "We'll bring him to safety. But understand," his gaze shifted between Pairo and Rosana, "safety is a temporary condition. It lasts only until you—or he—choose to step out of it. And from what you've told me of him, I doubt he'll choose to hide for long."
He pushed his plate aside, leaning forward. "Which brings us back to your request, Pairo. Revenge is a path, not a destination. It requires a foundation. Your body is weak, malnourished from years of limited sight. Your spirit is raw, liable to be consumed by the very fire you want to wield. Before I can teach you to harness Nen, to turn your grief into a weapon, you must first build a vessel strong enough to contain it."
He looked at Rosana. "The same applies to you. The power I wield is born of control, of turning one's life energy into a focused will. Anger alone will shatter you. Grief will drown you. You must master them first."
"For now," Kevin concluded, standing up, "your training begins with stillness. Grieve. Rage. Feel it all. But do it here, in this cabin, where you are safe. When the storm inside you no longer threatens to capsize you, when you can look at your scarlet eyes in the mirror and see a tool instead of a curse, then we begin."
He left them with that, stepping out of the restaurant into the hushed corridor of the blimp. His own mind was already several moves ahead: securing Kurapika, assessing Light's true game, and preparing for the eventual, inevitable convergence he felt in his bones. The Phantom Troupe would not let their humiliation stand unanswered. Yorknew City, with its teeming shadows and mafia congress, would be the logical battleground.
Back in the cabin, Pairo stared at his reflection in the dark window. His eyes, still holding the dull, blood-like hue of old injury, met his own gaze. A tool, not a curse. He clenched his small fists. The path was long, a descent into a darkness he was only beginning to fathom. But at its end, he saw the spiders, and the justice his father had died to buy him time to claim. He would become a vessel. He would become a weapon.
The blimp droned on through the night, carrying its cargo of survivors and secrets toward a city built on fortune and blood. The hunt was over, for now. The preparation had just begun.