A Little Coleman

The night was as dark as ink, and all around was silent and serene.

A lonely moon hung high, with a few leisurely clouds wandering and drifting around it.

The withered trees were leafless, their branches bent and twisted like an old man, terminally ill and contorted, wailing silently on his deathbed.

A few crows perched nearby.

Their eerie green eyes scanned the surroundings.

It was as if they were searching for prey.

The path was gloomy, lit only by a few faint, flickering streetlights that barely cast a glow.

It was eerie and desolate.

"Help! Help!!"

A man dressed in a disheveled suit, his face etched with terror and despair, fled blindly.

His leather shoe, which should have been polished to a shine, had been lost somewhere along the way.

His white sock was already stained and filthy.

He did not know where he was heading, nor if a savior awaited him.

But he had no choice but to run.

He prayed silently that there might be a god ahead.

Someone who could bring a ray of hope to a desperate soul.

Unfortunately, this time, the god did not answer this temporary believer.

What appeared before him was only a voice, ethereal and indistinct.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Why must you resist?"

"Is it not a great honor to become a work of art?"

Bewildered and helpless.

The three questions seemed to express the confusion of the voice's owner.

Yet, the pleasure laced within that tone made it certain that this person was not right in the head.

But to the man's ears, that voice was like a death warrant.

Terrifying, bloody, and cruel.

He shook his head frantically, begging to stir some pity in the other.

"I beg you, oh God, please, have mercy, spare me."

He collapsed to his knees, kowtowing incessantly.

Trickles of blood seeped from the center of his forehead.

They spread like a spiderweb.

Against the man's face, it looked somewhat grotesque and ridiculous.

Finally, before death took him, the man saw clearly the face of the one who had slaughtered his family.

White hair and red eyes, neither clearly man nor woman.

Incredibly, bewitchingly beautiful.

Clad in a white suit, adorned with delicate golden threads and metal chains as accents along the edges and corners.

He looked like a gentleman.

He wore a pair of black leather gloves.

The corners of his mouth curled up as he politely declined the man's plea.

He murmured softly, as if reciting an aria.

"My apologies, my poor sir, but God is weeping."

With that, he flashed forward, passing straight through the man's body.

The man felt a sharp pain in his neck, and a thin line of blood appeared across his throat.

Yet, at this moment, he had no time to care.

His eyes remained filled with a lingering obsession and intoxication.

How could there be such a beautiful person?

Like a fallen angel playing with human hearts.

His red, jewel-like eyes shimmered.

Like the stars hanging high above the peaks of the Great British mountains.

Noble, elegant, and untouchable.

Blood surged upward.

The warm sensation welled up, offering a hint of comfort to this fugitive in the freezing night.

The corners of his mouth couldn't help but curl upward, a trace of bliss hanging on his face.

Thump.

The corpse hit the ground.

The expression on the man's face held a lingering attachment to the mortal world, yet no resistance to death.

It was as if he had ascended to heaven.

Standing in place, the youth brushed some non-existent bloodstains from his gloves.

His posture was elegant and polite.

He turned around and walked over to the body.

He meticulously peeled away the mud and rotting leaves from the man.

He straightened the man's suit.

He was fastidious, as if completing a painting.

Once finished, he positioned the body face-up with the feet resting naturally.

He pried the fingers apart and crossed the hands, creating the appearance of a pilgrimage.

Standing up, the youth looked at the final stroke he had completed, quite satisfied.

He took out an old-fashioned camera and selected a suitable angle within this thicket.

In harmony with the high-hanging moon, he perfectly preserved this "masterpiece" of a painting.

Click.

Moonlight shone down, and the shadow of the ancient castle in the distance fell just right across the corpse.

Combined with this peculiar angle, a shadow resembling a cross appeared on the photograph.

And that corpse with the blissful face would be the most perfect "gem" upon this "cross."

He curled his lips, looking extremely satisfied.

Joy surfaced, and the white-haired youth couldn't help but hum a tune.

He walked slowly toward the distance, holding a black photo album in his hand.

Flipping through it, he found the corresponding page.

Behind the freshly developed photo, he casually wrote "Creel Home."

He then wrote the two characters for "Prayer" in the bottom right corner of the photo.

He stroked it gently, looking quite affectionate, then carefully placed it into the second slot of the album.

And that first slot also contained a strange and eerie photograph.

A kitchen, a fireplace.

A dining table, a banquet.

And those "puppets" in various poses, connected by all sorts of threads.

Looking closely, these were clearly cold, dead bodies!

The youth studied this photo for a moment, as if in deep thought.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize something and hurriedly took the photo out.

On the back of this photo, the words "Creel Home" were written as well.

The youth stared at it for a long time, chewing on the tip of his pen.

He then inscribed the two characters for "Banquet" in the bottom right corner.

"Ah, is this what they mean by regretting not having read enough when the time comes to use it?"

His mind was blank; he couldn't think of any adjectives.

The youth sighed dejectedly, shook his head, and put the photo back in.

He made a firm resolution: he must read more books when he gets home!

He couldn't even come up with a name, tsk.

By now, he had walked out of the thicket, enjoying the moonlight as he stretched his back.

"Coleman, you shouldn't do unnecessary things."

Suddenly, a youthful, boyish voice rang out by his ear, giving the youth a start.

Identifying the voice, he let down his guard and complained, "Brother, why must you scare me?"

The youth known as Coleman looked quite aggrieved; his brother was just too much.

Didn't he know that scaring people could literally scare them to death?

The boy whom Coleman called brother was a child with black hair and black eyes, his gaze inorganic and impenetrable.

Their faces were strikingly similar; if one were to ignore their different hair and eye colors, they could easily be mistaken for one another.

They were the same height, with nearly identical voices.

Both had features that leaned toward the feminine.

They lacked the sharp, angular edges typical of males.

They looked like two porcelain dolls.

However, compared to his inorganic brother, the younger brother's eyes were much more spirited.

"Coleman, have you forgotten the Zoldyck Family's assassin rules?"

The older brother ignored his brother's attempt to change the subject, asking with earnest seriousness.

"But Illumi, if it were just about killing, how boring would that be?"

The younger brother shrugged, completely unfazed by his brother's intimidating gaze, and affectionately grabbed his sibling's hand, swaying it back and forth.

"Brother is the best, you won't tell Father, right?"

Illumi furrowed his delicate brows. He did not resist his brother's closeness, even following the motion and swaying along with him.

After a moment of hesitation, he spoke slowly: "But, Father should already know."

"Besides, isn't killing for money?"

Illumi said, looking puzzled.

We are a family of assassins. Since that's the case, isn't this line of work just a normal profession for us?

How could working ever be fun?

Only making money is fun!

Having possessed an independent view on money since childhood, Illumi believed that killing was simply a means to earn.

Why would one look for joy in their work?

Isn't lying around at home better than working?

He looked dazed and vacant, like a little robot that didn't quite understand.

At this, Coleman couldn't help but chuckle.

His brother was so cute.

He looked just like a porcelain doll!

He wanted to hide him away at home!

To be his doll alone.

Driven by a strange sense of possessiveness, Coleman's grip on Illumi tightened slightly.

The stinging sensation made young Illumi frown.

"Coleman, you're hurting me."

"Oh, sorry, sorry."

He apologized perfunctorily, though he still rubbed the spot with care.

Coleman smiled and blinked. "Let's go back."

"...You'll get scolded by Father if you go back."

"No, he'll electrocute me."

"...Or he might even use torture, who knows."

Illumi thought about his father's lack of mercy and couldn't help but feel a bit of schadenfreude.

I already said it, it's just killing—you just need to make sure the target ends up dead.

As for how it's done or what is used, does it really matter?

Whatever, as long as Coleman likes it.

It's not like I'm the one suffering anyway.

"Then you can't finish the cookies Mom made."

Thinking about the treatment awaiting him shortly, Coleman pouted, looked up, and said to his brother.

"You have to save a portion for me."

Illumi turned his head, blinked, and remained expressionless.

He said slowly: "No way!"