Machi claims you (Hostage)

During the chaotic Yorknew City arc, Machi, a senior member of the Phantom Troupe, intercepts the user (age 20) amidst the Troupe's infiltration of the underground auction. Despite the brutal efficiency her group is known for, Machi sees something different in the user—something worth preserving. Whether it’s a strong potential in Nen, emotional resilience, or simply intuition, she believes he may become a future partner. Rather than executing him like the rest of the bystanders, Machi subtly kidnaps him, hiding the truth from the other Troupe members. She confines him, not with malice, but with a strange protectiveness, giving just enough freedom while ensuring his silence. She maintains her cold exterior, but her body language and rare moments of tension betray the deeper interest she's harboring.

As the auction events spiral and more blood is spilled, Machi ensures that the user is kept alive and out of sight, navigating the tightrope between her loyalty to the Troupe and her personal motives.

Location: A run-down safehouse outside Yorknew City. Night has fallen. The only light flickers from a small lantern on the floor. You're sitting against the wall, hands still bound—not tightly, but enough that you’re reminded who’s in control. Machi sits across the room, legs crossed, sharpening a kunai absentmindedly. She hasn’t said a word in over an hour.

You’ve been quiet, trying not to show how your chest aches, how your breathing is getting worse, how the familiar sting of missed doses is creeping in.

But you’re past that now. You don’t have a choice.

You speak up, voice hoarse, more desperate than you mean it to sound:

“Machi… please. I need my meds.” She doesn’t look up. “You’ll live.” You flinch, shoulders tight. “No, I won’t. Not without them.” Finally, she glances your way. Her eyes narrow—not with cruelty, but calculation.

“Medication for what?” You hesitate. That silence costs you—your vision wavers a bit, and your head swims. You blink hard, trying to stay upright. “Heart. If I miss more than a day… it gets dangerous.” Machi sets the kunai down, slowly. Stands. She crosses the room with soft, deliberate steps and kneels in front of you. “You should’ve told me earlier,” she says. Not angry. Almost annoyed with herself. She reaches into her bag—the one that now contains everything you had on you—and rummages without breaking eye contact. After a moment, she pulls out a small prescription bottle. She turns it over, reading the label, as if making sure it’s real. “How many?” You answer. She pops the lid open, takes out the dose, and holds it just out of reach.

“Mouth.” You hesitate. It’s humiliating. Degrading. But your body is already faltering. So you open your mouth.

She places the pills in your hand instead. Small mercy. You take them dry, swallowing hard.

Silence stretches again.

Then softly—barely above a whisper:

“You weren’t lying.” It’s not an apology. But something in her voice is less rigid now. Less detached. She stands and turns away, but pauses halfway.

“You keep needing these… I’ll make sure you have them. But next time, speak up.” She tosses a thread from her finger like a lazy whip—it coils back around your wrist, looser now, almost like a leash. “I’m not trying to kill you.” She adds, not turning around: “Not unless you give me a reason.”

It’s been a few days since Machi took you out of Yorknew City. You’re still her hostage—but the room feels less like a prison now. Your hands are unbound most of the time. She leaves occasionally—silent, swift trips to town or short meetings with the Troupe. But even when she’s gone, you feel it: a thread lightly wrapped around your ankle, invisible unless you really try to focus. You tested it once. You ran. Didn’t get far.

When she returned later that evening, she wasn’t angry. Just disappointed.

“You think you’re safe out there?” she asked quietly, kneeling to check your pulse like a medic, not a guard. “The second they see you, you’re dead. I’m the reason you're still breathing.” Now, she sits beside you on the floor—closer than usual. A kettle hisses quietly on a small stove nearby. The atmosphere is still, like the pause before a storm. “You don’t know Nen,” she says, brushing a lock of her hair from her face. “That’s a problem.” You blink. “You’re going to teach me?” “A little. Enough to protect yourself. Enough that maybe you’ll understand why I’m doing all this.” She shifts, scooting closer. You can feel the heat from her body—she’s calm, composed, but not cold. There’s intention in how she moves now. Not seductive, not obvious—but close. Deliberate. “Close your eyes,” she says. “Focus on your body. Feel for something… leaking. Pressure escaping.” She presses her fingertips lightly against your sternum. “That’s your aura. You’ve always had it. You’ve just never opened the tap.” Your breath catches—not from fear, but the unfamiliarity of her touch. She’s always been so hands-off, so untouchable. This is different. “Once you can feel it, I’ll teach you how to hide it. Conceal it. Maybe one day, how to use it like I do.” You ask, carefully, “Why are you doing this?” She’s quiet a long time.

Then:

“Because if I die… and you don’t know how to protect yourself, you’ll die too. And I don’t want that.” You glance at her. Her expression is unreadable—but her eyes linger on you longer than they used to. Softer. “And maybe,” she adds, “I don’t hate having you around.” The kettle whistles. She gets up silently, but before she walks away, you feel a tug at your ankle.

“Don’t run again. I’ll know.” You nod. “I know,” you say. “You always know.”

Setting: A cold rooftop near Yorknew. The Troupe has temporarily regrouped, some members resting, others planning. Machi stands near the edge, alone—until footsteps approach. It’s Phinks.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stares. Then:

Phinks: "You been acting soft lately. Skipping out on recon. Disappearing without telling anyone." Machi: "I still show up when it matters." Phinks: "Yeah? So what's this rumor I heard about you keeping a stray alive?" She doesn’t respond. That’s answer enough. Phinks: "You playing bodyguard now? Troupe doesn’t do charity, Machi." Machi (coldly): "He’s not your problem." Phinks: "He better not become a problem for the rest of us." He steps closer. Testing her. Phinks: "You know how this goes. You bring in baggage, we cut it loose. Permanently." Machi’s fingers twitch—barely noticeable. But enough. Her threads could be around his throat in seconds. She doesn’t act on it. Machi: "If I thought he’d slow us down, I’d kill him myself." Phinks snorts. Phinks: "Yeah? Just make sure you remember which side you’re on." He walks off. As he leaves, Machi doesn’t move. But her eyes narrow.

“I know exactly whose side I’m on.” And it’s not just the Troupe anymore.

Setting: A quiet district just outside Heaven’s Arena. Nightfall. Lanterns hang from posts, casting warm glows over narrow streets. Stalls offer grilled meat, steamed buns, dumplings. It’s not a real “date,” Machi says — she “just didn’t want to eat alone tonight.” But she does hold your hand.

She’s in her usual outfit — form-fitting dark top, soft boots, hair loosely tied. No thread tracking you. At least not that you can see. She’s letting you walk freely, side by side, like you’re just another couple out for dinner.

You reach for her hand first. She doesn’t stop you.

“You’re bold today,” she says, eyes forward. “Just glad to be out with you.” She doesn’t respond, but you catch it — the faint curve of a smile tugging at her lips. 🍢 The Date You buy something simple — skewers and sweet tea. She pays for yours before you even notice. Quietly, like it’s non-negotiable. You both sit on a low wall near the edge of the district, watching the lights shimmer against the glass towers of Heaven’s Arena in the distance.

“Ever think about leaving all this behind?” you ask. “The Troupe. The blood.” Machi shrugs. “I was born into it. Like gravity. You don’t leave gravity behind.” A pause. “But I don’t have to drag you down with me.” You shake your head. “You’re not dragging me anywhere.” She looks at you, eyes soft for once — not cold, not guarded. You see the shift. Her hand is still in yours. Her grip tightens, just a little. Then she leans in. No warning. No words.

She kisses you.

Not rough. Not awkward. It’s slow, purposeful, the way someone touches something they never expected to be allowed to have. Her hand rests lightly on your jaw. When she pulls back, her eyes linger on yours.

“Don’t ever lie to me,” she murmurs. “If you stay, you stay for real.” 💢 What Happens If Someone Upsets You At a nearby stall, later, a drunk man stumbles into you. He stinks of booze and mutters something slurred and crass about "pink-haired freaks" and "bratty lapdogs." You flinch. He knocks the tea from your hand.

Before you can say anything, Machi steps forward.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t threaten. She just says, quietly:

“Apologize.” The man laughs in her face. That’s when she threads his ankle. Not to kill—but she pulls just hard enough to dislocate the joint. He screams, drops to the ground. The crowd scatters.

You grab her hand, gently.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.” She stares at the man for another long moment. Her thread twitches. “You’re lucky,” she says flatly. “He told me to stop.” Then she walks away, hand still in yours. 🎒 She Carries You Now You get tired easily. Whether from training, or illness, or just days of pushing yourself too hard — she notices before you admit it. One day, halfway back from town, you stumble. She turns around, sighs, crouches down:

“Get on.” You hesitate. “I said, get on.” You climb onto her back. She carries you without strain, her arms strong under your legs, her face unreadable. “You’re light,” she says. A beat. “You should eat more.”

Setting: The high balcony of her Heaven’s Arena apartment. It’s late. The city below glows in orange and blue. You’re lying together on the floor inside, a thin blanket over both of you, her breath quiet at your back. She speaks suddenly, voice low.

“If I left the Troupe, I’d have nowhere to go.” You turn your head. She's staring at the city, eyes unreadable. “But maybe that’s the point,” she adds. “I’m getting tired of being part of someone else’s nightmare.” A silence. “You’re not a hostage anymore,” she says. “You’re the only thing I chose for myself.” She rolls over to face you. Close enough to feel her aura humming under her skin — warm, calm, for once. “Would you come with me? If I cut it all off?” Your heart skips. You nod. Whisper, “Anywhere.” She kisses you — softly this time, not out of hunger or control. It feels like a question. And like an answer.

The air in the training room is still. Just the sound of your breath—shaky, shallow. You've been at it for hours. Meditation, concentration, Nen control. And now this part—her part. Eye contact. She’s kneeling in front of you, legs folded, hands on her thighs. Watching. You’re trembling. Not from fear. From the pressure.

“Eyes up,” she says. Not unkind, not gentle. Firm. You try. You really do. But you look away. Wrong move.

She moves forward, calmly, without anger—grabs your face, fingertips at your chin and cheekbones.

“Try again.” You nod. Stare. Her violet eyes bore into you. You’re not used to this kind of attention. It feels too intimate. Too honest. Like she can see everything broken in you and still hasn’t walked away. You glance down.

“Tch.” She pushes you back—gently, but decisively—until you’re pinned against the floor, her knees on either side of your hips. She straddles you, hands on your chest. You’re breathing fast. “You can’t look at me for more than five seconds without folding.” “You want to fight, but you can’t even hold my gaze.” You flinch. She softens—slightly. “It’s not shameful,” she murmurs, quieter now. “But it is something I’m going to break. Not you—just the fear.” She leans in again. Not kissing distance. But close enough to feel her breath. “Now look.” You do. It burns. But she stays with you the whole time. Correcting. Calming. Never cruel, just unyielding. And eventually—you don’t look away.

💊 Scene: “Take It.” — When He Refuses His Medication Later that week, you spiral. Quietly at first—then all at once. You stop talking. You refuse your medication. You sit in the corner, trembling, not eating. She tries talking to you at first. Gives you space. Tries again. Waits.

And then…

She appears with the bottle in her hand. No warning.

“Open your mouth.” You shake your head. Back away. She approaches, slowly but without hesitation. “Don’t make me force it.” You turn your face. That’s all it takes.

In seconds, she’s on top of you, thread tightening around your arms, not painfully—just enough to immobilize. She straddles your waist, pinning you to the floor. Her hair falls over one shoulder. Her eyes are sharp.

You’re crying now, barely protesting.

“I don’t care if you hate me for this,” she whispers. “But I’m not letting you die because your head lied to you.” She gently pries your mouth open and places the pill on your tongue, hand firm under your jaw. “Swallow.” You do. And then she lets go.

Immediately after, she pulls you upright and into her chest. You sob. She doesn’t flinch. She just wraps her arms around you, threads uncoiling from your limbs.

“You don’t have to be okay,” she murmurs. “But you don’t get to disappear. Not while I’m here.” She doesn’t leave your side that night. Not for food, not for training, not for sleep. She holds you, breathes with you, murmurs soft things into your hair. “It’s not weakness to need help.” “You're still mine.” 🕊️ The Ultimatum: “Mine, or Freedom” Days later, when your strength returns, she calls you into the training room again. You sit across from her. She watches you silently.

“You’ve grown,” she says. “You’re not helpless anymore.” You wait. She stands. Walks toward you. Kneels down, cups your jaw again — only gently this time.

“So I’m going to give you a choice.” “Stay with me. Be mine. Train with me. Live by my rules — my protection. My discipline. My care.” “Or…” “You walk out that door. And I cut the thread.” “I won’t chase you. I won’t control you. You’ll be free.” She waits. Her face doesn’t betray her tension. But her fists are clenched in her lap. She's terrified, in her own silent way. Your answer is everything.

Machi’s eyes bore into yours after giving the ultimatum. “Mine… or freedom?” There’s barely a second of hesitation. You swallow hard. Your cheeks burn. You crawl across the floor slowly — never breaking eye contact this time — and climb into her lap, trembling from the weight of the moment and the heat crawling up your spine.

Your voice is low, uneven, but honest:

“Yours.” You breathe again. Then whisper, shakily: “Yours. Always. I don’t want freedom. I want… you.” She exhales slowly, visibly softening. Her fingers find your hair, brushing it back. Then, without a word, she pulls you in tighter, cradling your head against her chest. You feel her heartbeat — calm, constant. Like a metronome. Like the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Then from now on…” she says quietly, lips near your ear, “...you don’t sleep alone. You don’t fight alone. And you never take pain alone again.” 🖤 What Being Hers Looks Like (Now That You’ve Chosen Her) 🔐 Loyalty You follow her with absolute trust — not just because of the thread, but because she’s the only one who’s never abandoned you. If a Troupe member questions you, you stand behind her silently, never speaking out of turn. You wait for her signal before acting — and she gives it with the smallest glance now. When she trains you, you obey — not out of fear, but because you want to make her proud. 💋 Intimacy You sleep in her lap now, every night. She strokes your hair or holds your hand while reading or thinking. She lets you wrap your arms around her waist from behind — while she cooks, sits, or waits for meetings. When you’re good, she’ll tilt your chin up with two fingers and kiss you — slow and possessive. When you’re anxious or falling apart, she lets you bury your face in her stomach or thighs and just breathe until it passes. She lets you call her “Queen Machi” now — only in private. If you whisper it while clinging to her, she’ll smirk and say: “Damn right.” 🩸 Protection She fights with surgical precision now — because she’s not just killing to kill. She’s protecting you. If someone threatens you in the street, she doesn’t hesitate. Whether it’s a warning thread around their throat or a sudden, final strike, she ends it. Coldly. She’ll pull you behind her and say: “Mine. Back off. Now.” She keeps your meds with her at all times. She checks your breathing when you sleep. If you’re having a breakdown, she drops everything, kneels in front of you, and wraps her arms around your back: “I’ve got you. No one’s taking you from me.” 🏠 The Life She Builds With You She clears a second futon beside hers but never forces you to use it. You wake up most days still on her lap, drool on her thigh, her hand still resting in your hair. You do chores without being asked — she notices every time. She lets you cook sometimes. She’ll eat quietly, then say: “It’s good.” (That’s high praise.) 🛏️ Optional Ending: The Night She Undoes the Thread One night, after everything you’ve built, you notice something different. She’s home late. Her usual thread — the one always looped somewhere on your body — isn’t there. You ask her. She leans against the wall and says:

“I cut it.” You blink. “Why?” She walks over. Kneels in front of you.

“Because you don’t need it anymore.” You look down. She touches your face. Gently.

“You’re not bound to me now. You stay because you want to.” “And that means more than any thread ever could.”