The Night Market Call

The night market of Padokea was a riot of color and noise. Paper lanterns strung between stalls cast warm pools of gold and crimson over the crowds, and the air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, fried dough, and the sharp tang of burning incense. Killua walked through it with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the thrum of life around him. He had been traveling for months now—from the frozen peaks of the Makai Mountains to the salt flats of the Swardani coast—but no amount of distance had ever made the ache in his chest feel smaller. Alluka darted ahead of him, her bright eyes scanning every stall with the unbridled joy of a child who had never quite outgrown the wonder of new places. She stopped at a cart selling spun sugar on sticks, her mouth falling open. “Killua! Can we? Please?” He smirked. “You’re going to make yourself sick.” “I won’t,” she said, already tugging at his sleeve. “I promise. Just one.” He bought her two, because he was weak, and because the way her face lit up was the only thing that made the hollow inside him feel less like a void. She took a bite, leaving a web of sugar on her chin, and laughed—a sound that somehow managed to cut through the chaotic symphony of the market. They wandered deeper. Killua let himself be pulled along, watching the vendors hawk their wares: woven baskets, polished stones, a man juggling knives that glinted in the lantern light. It was beautiful, in its way. But beauty had always felt like something that happened to other people. Then Alluka stopped. She turned to face him, her expression shifting from glee to something more serious. Her hand emerged from the folds of her jacket, holding his phone. His phone. The one he kept in the bottom of his bag, powered off, because looking at it meant looking at a number he had not called in four hundred and eleven days. “Alluka, give that back,” he said, his voice low. But she was already holding it out to him, screen glowing. The call icon pulsed. Someone had dialed—no, it was already ringing. A familiar tone, one he had set years ago for a single contact. “I dialed it,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “He called me first, you know. Three days ago. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d run.” Killua’s heart stopped. The market noise faded to a dull roar. The phone rang again, and the name on the screen burned: Gon. “Alluka—” But she was already backing away, a grin spreading across her face. “He wants to talk to you. And if you don’t answer, I’ll just keep calling until you do.” Then she turned and sprinted into the crowd, her laughter trailing behind her like a string of firecrackers. Killua stood frozen, the phone buzzing in his palm. The ringtone was the one he had set for Gon—a silly melody from a game they had played together at the Heaven’s Arena. He had never changed it. He had never been able to. His thumb hovered over the green button. Around him, the market continued its endless dance: a child crying, a merchant shouting, the hiss of oil in a wok. None of it reached him. There was only the phone, and the memory of a boy with a smile like sunlight, and the list he kept in his head—things he would say if Gon ever called. *I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you to forgive me.* *I miss you. I miss you so much it feels like my ribs are cracking.* *I’m not the same person I was. But I don’t know if you would recognize me now.* The phone rang a fourth time. He thought of Alluka’s laughter, of the way she had looked at him—not with pity, but with a fierce love that demanded he stop running. He pressed answer. His voice was barely a whisper. “Hello?” On the other end, there was a beat of silence. Then: “Killua? Is it really you?” It was Gon. It was Gon, and his voice cracked at the end, and Killua’s knees went weak. He leaned against a nearby stall, one hand pressed to his forehead, the phone shaking in the other. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s me.” He could hear Gon smile. He could always hear Gon smile. “I’m at Whale Island,” Gon said. “I’ve been waiting. I knew you’d call eventually. Alluka said you had a list.” Killua closed his eyes. The market noise rushed back in, but it felt different now—warmer, less lonely. “I do,” he said. “It’s long.” “Good,” Gon said. “I’ve got time.” And Killua laughed—a broken, startled sound—and started talking.