Burning Avarice
Chapter l. Chapter ll
— an insatiable, extreme desire to gain and hoard wealth or possessions, often considered a formal synonym for greed. ordered by @midnightking24 !
HUNTER X HUNTER: Leorio Paradinight x reader ( Aladdin AU )
C/TW: poverty, hunger, stealing, criminal behaviour, isolation
Word Count: 4,634 words and 27,055 characters
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the city does not welcome—it endures.
it lies beneath a sky that never quite changes, a vast, colorless expanse stretched thin above everything, as if it had been pulled too far and left that way. there are no clouds, not even the suggestion of one—only an endless pale glare that settles over the city without movement, without relief. the sun does not rise or fall so much as it exists, fixed and watchful, its light unbroken, spilling downward in a way that feels less like warmth and more like exposure.
it does not touch gently.
it presses.
the light seeps into every open space, filling it completely, leaving no room for shadow to properly form. what little shade exists feels thin, temporary—something that could disappear if looked at too closely. it gathers in narrow corners, clings to the undersides of structures, stretches weakly beneath uneven rooftops, but never holds. never protects.
everything is seen.
everything is left bare.
the air carries weight.
not wind—never wind—but something heavier, something that lingers without moving, thick enough to be felt against the skin. it settles low, close to the ground, pressing into lungs with every breath, making the simple act of inhaling feel deliberate. dust hangs within it, suspended, unmoving particles that catch the light in dull, lifeless ways, turning the space between things into something almost visible.
it does not drift.
it waits.
the city itself seems built not with intention, but with necessity.
structures rise unevenly from the ground, their shapes irregular, their edges softened by time and erosion. stone and clay, layered without symmetry, without precision—walls that do not quite align, surfaces that bear the marks of repair upon repair, each attempt less careful than the last. nothing is smooth. nothing is finished. everything feels as though it has been left midway through becoming something else. buildings lean into one another, not out of design, but out of quiet surrender, as if they have long since lost the strength to stand alone. narrow passageways cut between them, winding without direction, too tight in some places, too wide in others, creating a maze that does not guide, only contains.
there is no clear center, no sense of beginning or end.
just continuation.
the ground beneath it all is uneven, worn down by years of use, its surface cracked and splitting in thin, jagged lines that spread without pattern. sand gathers there, slipping easily into every fracture, every dip, every place where the surface has given way. it does not stay in one place. it shifts subtly, constantly, reshaping the ground in ways too small to notice until something feels different beneath each step.
it finds its way everywhere.
against doorways. along ledges. caught in the folds of fabric hung out too long. pressed into the seams of things not meant to hold it.
it does not belong.
and yet, nothing exists without it.
the streets are filled, but never crowded in the way that suggests life.
figures move through them in slow, continuous patterns, their paths crossing and uncrossing without interaction, without interruption. there is no urgency in their steps, no variation in pace—only the steady repetition of movement that has been performed too many times to require thought. heads remain lowered, eyes unfocused, as if looking too closely at anything might demand a response.
voices exist, but they do not carry.
they remain low, contained, blending into one another until they lose distinction, forming a constant murmur that lingers just beneath awareness. no single word rises above the rest. no conversation demands attention. it is sound without presence, noise without meaning, something that fills the space only because silence would feel too heavy to bear.
nothing here announces itself,
nothing insists.
even the marketplace—if it can be called that—feels subdued, its stalls arranged without structure, their contents laid out in ways that suggest routine rather than care. fabrics dulled by sun, their colors faded into something unrecognizable. objects worn down by repeated handling, edges smoothed not by craftsmanship but by time. everything carries the same quiet sense of use, of having existed for too long without ever being replaced.
there is no sense of newness.
only continuation.
time does not move forward here,
it settles.
it gathers in layers, stacking one upon another until the present feels indistinguishable from what came before. there are no clear markers of passing days, no changes in light or temperature significant enough to separate one moment from the next. everything exists in a state of constant repetition, a cycle so complete it no longer feels like movement at all.
just existence.
even the shadows seem tired.
they stretch thin along the ground, barely visible, their edges soft and uncertain, as though they no longer have the strength to hold their shape. they do not shift with purpose. they do not deepen or retreat. they simply remain, faint and unconvincing, offering no real escape from the light that presses endlessly from above.
the city breathes—but only just.
a slow, shallow rhythm that never quite changes, never deepens, never falters. it does not live in the way things are meant to. it persists in the way things do when they have no other choice.
and beneath it all—woven into the heat, the dust, the stillness—
there is something else.
not movement.
not sound.
something quieter.
something that does not belong to the rhythm of the streets, nor the weight of the air, nor the slow, endless repetition of the days.
it does not reveal itself.
it lingers.
patient.
waiting for something—
or someone—
to notice.
and still—beneath all of it—life finds its way into motion.
not sudden. not striking. nothing that breaks the slow, suffocating rhythm of the city. just a subtle shift, the kind that happens without announcement, without intention, until it is already there.
the murmur thickens.
footsteps overlap more frequently, brushing past one another in closer intervals, bodies weaving through the narrow streets with slightly sharper turns, slightly quicker adjustments. not urgency, never urgency. but something closer to necessity. a quiet tightening of movement, a subtle increase in awareness. hands kept closer to the body. eyes lowered just a fraction more.
the streets do not change.
but the way people move through them does.
and within that shift—
he exists.
Leorio does not arrive. he does not enter. he is already there, folded into the motion of the street as naturally as the dust beneath it, as if he had always belonged to the spaces between people rather than the spaces themselves.
he moves without drawing attention, but not without intention.
there is a precision to it—subtle, practiced, something worn into him through repetition rather than taught. his steps follow no clear path, yet they never falter. his shoulders angle just enough to slip through narrower gaps, his pace adjusts without thought, quickening, slowing, aligning with the rhythm of those around him in a way that feels almost instinctive.
he does not look at what he takes.
that is the first thing one might notice—if they were looking closely enough to notice anything at all.
his gaze drifts elsewhere, unfocused, disinterested, as though the world itself has nothing worth holding onto. it passes over faces without recognition, over movement without curiosity. there is no hesitation in him, no second glance, no flicker of doubt that might betray intention.
only movement.
only action.
a brush of fabric—too light to register.
the faintest shift in weight—too small to question.
and then—
absence.
it is never immediate.
there is always a delay. a few seconds, sometimes longer. a moment where everything remains unchanged, where the rhythm of the street continues uninterrupted, where nothing feels different enough to notice. until it does.
a hand reaches.
finds nothing.
a pause.
confusion settles in, slow and uncertain, as if the mind itself is reluctant to accept what has already happened. fingers check again, more deliberately this time, searching for something that should still be there.
it isn’t.
and by then—
he is already gone.
barefoot. not running. never running. that would draw attention, create disruption, break the careful balance he maintains. instead, he blends deeper into the flow, slipping between bodies, adjusting his path just enough to dissolve into the movement of the street until he is no longer distinct, no longer separate.
just another figure.
just another presence.
unseen.
unremembered.
—
hunger does not announce itself.
it does not ache in sharp, unbearable ways, does not twist or claw or demand. it settles low, constant, a quiet presence that lingers beneath everything else, dulling thought, dulling reaction, shaping choices in ways too subtle to notice until they have already been made.
it has been there too long to feel like anything but normal.
and normal is enough.
it is enough to keep him moving.
enough to keep his hands quick, his attention sharp, his patience thin but controlled. enough to make the weight of what he takes feel justified, necessary, unquestioned.
there is no room for hesitation in something like this.
hesitation costs.
and he has nothing left to spend.
—
time passes.
not in clear increments, not in ways that can be measured or marked, but in repetition. movement layered upon movement, action folded into action, until the distinction between one moment and the next begins to blur.
the sun does not shift, the air does not cool, the streets do not empty.
only the body changes.
subtly.
gradually.
the tension in his shoulders settles lower, heavier. his steps lose their earlier precision—not enough to be noticed, but enough to be felt. the sharpness in his awareness dulls just slightly, softened by exhaustion that does not demand rest but suggests it.
and eventually—
he stops.
not abruptly. not in a way that breaks the rhythm he has been following, but in a slow divergence from it. his path shifts, angling away from the thicker flow of the street, toward narrower passageways where movement is less constant, where the murmur fades into something thinner, more fragmented.
the air feels different there.
not lighter. never lighter. but quieter, in a way that allows other things to surface.
the space narrows, walls pressing closer, the light dimming just enough to cast uneven shadows along the ground. the dust settles more heavily here, undisturbed by the constant motion of the main streets, gathering in thicker layers along the edges of the path.
it feels… removed.
not separate from the city—but less observed.
less cared for.
and tucked within that space—
others linger.
they do not gather in any organized way.
they simply exist there, scattered along the edges, leaning against walls, seated on uneven ground, their presence as quiet and unremarkable as everything else.
nothing about them demands attention. nothing about them suggests threat.
and yet—
there is an understanding.
unspoken.
shared.
they are not so different.
he settles among them without acknowledgment.
no greetings. no questions. no recognition of arrival. just the quiet acceptance of space already occupied, of presence that does not need to be announced to be understood.
the ground is rough beneath him, uneven, dust pressing into fabric, into skin. it does not matter.
nothing here does.
for a while, there is nothing.
just breathing. just the low, distant murmur of the city bleeding faintly into the space, softened by distance, by walls, by the weight of stillness that settles more easily here.
and then—
voices.
not loud. never loud. but clearer than before, less swallowed by the endless noise of the streets.
fragmented at first.
indistinct.
pieces of conversation slipping through the air without form, without context, until—
something catches.
“ …said it wasn’t just gold. ”
a pause.
a shift.
“ …not like anything here. ”
another voice, lower, rougher, edged with something that almost resembles interest.
“ lamp. ”
the word settles differently.
it does not blend.
it lingers.
“ …deep in the cave. past the outer ridge—where the ground splits. ”
“ no one comes back from there. ”
“ they don’t need to. ”
a faint sound—something between a scoff and a breath.
“ if it’s real. ”
silence follows.
not heavy. not tense. just… present. as if the conversation itself has reached a point where words are no longer necessary.
but the idea remains.
unmoving.
persistent.
a lamp.
not gold.
not something ordinary.
something else.
something that does not belong to the slow decay of the city, to the repetition of its days, to the quiet, endless persistence of survival.
something… beyond it.
the air does not change,
the walls do not shift.
the city continues its slow, suffocating rhythm just beyond the narrow passage.
and yet—
something has settled.
something small,
something quiet.
but enough.
enough to be noticed.
enough to stay.
—
the city does not follow him home.
it never does.
it lingers, of course—clinging stubbornly to fabric, to skin, to the thin layer of dust that refuses to be brushed away completely—but its noise fades, its presence dulling into something quieter, something more distant. the endless murmur of voices thins into scattered echoes, footsteps dissolving into nothing as the streets narrow, then empty, then give way to spaces that feel less like part of the city and more like something forgotten by it.
his place—if it can be called that—does not stand out.
it barely stands at all.
tucked between structures that have long since begun to lean away from it, as if even they have decided it is not worth holding up, the space exists in that uncertain line between shelter and ruin. the walls are uneven, their surfaces cracked and flaking in places where repair was attempted and abandoned halfway through. the ceiling holds, but not convincingly, its weight settling in a way that suggests it has considered collapse more than once.
it is enough.
barely.
inside, the air feels different.
not cleaner. not lighter. just… still. the kind of stillness that settles too easily, too completely, as if nothing has passed through it in too long. it carries the faint scent of dust, of heat trapped and left to sit, of something dry and unchanging.
nothing here moves unless he does.
and even then, it feels reluctant.
he steps in without ceremony, letting the outside fall away behind him—not fully, never fully, but enough that the space closes in around him, smaller than the streets, smaller than the sky, smaller than anything that might suggest possibility.
just walls.
just ground.
just what he has.
he exhales.
it is not relief.
just habit.
the day settles into him slowly.
not all at once, not in any way that demands immediate rest, but in layers. tension loosening where it had held too long, awareness dulling where it had been stretched thin. his shoulders drop slightly, his steps losing their earlier precision as he moves through the space with less care, less intention.
there is nothing here to take.
nothing here to lose.
he lowers himself without much thought, the ground familiar in its roughness, its uneven texture pressing through fabric in ways he has long since stopped noticing. his back finds the wall behind him, not comfortably, never comfortably, but in a way that works.
that is enough.
for a while, there is nothing.
just breathing.
just the quiet.
just the faint, distant suggestion of the city continuing somewhere beyond the walls, muted enough to feel almost unreal.
and then—
it returns.
not the sound.
not the movement.
the thought.
lamp.
it slips in without permission, settling somewhere just beneath the surface, quiet but persistent, like something that has decided it will not be ignored simply because it has not been invited.
he exhales again, sharper this time. “ Yeah, right. ”
it comes out under his breath, low, dismissive, the kind of response given to something that does not deserve attention.
and yet—
he shifts.
just slightly.
his head tilts back against the wall, gaze drifting upward toward a ceiling that offers nothing worth looking at. his fingers tap once against his knee, then still.
“ …a lamp. ”
he says it like it offends him.
like the idea itself is personally inconvenient.
a faint scoff follows, quiet but clear, breaking the stillness just enough to feel out of place.
“ What’s next, huh?! magic carpets?! flying bread?! ”
he pauses.
“ …okay, if it’s flying bread, I’m listening. ”
another pause.
longer this time.
his expression doesn’t change much—there isn’t enough energy for that—but something shifts behind it, something subtle, something that lingers a little too long to be ignored completely.
because—
a lamp.
not gold.
not something ordinary.
something else.
something that does not belong to the city, to its dust, to its slow, endless repetition of days that blur together until even memory feels unreliable.
something that could—
he exhales sharply, cutting the thought off before it finishes forming.
“ Yeah, and i’m the king of the whole damn place. ”
his head tilts forward now, gaze dropping to the ground, to the thin layer of dust gathered there, undisturbed, unchanging.
real.
this is real.
this— walls that barely hold, air that does not move, hunger that never quite leaves—this is what makes sense. this is what exists. this is what he knows.
not lamps.
not caves.
not wishes.
“ Deep in a cave, ” he mutters, voice flattening, mimicking the earlier conversation with just enough exaggeration to make it sound ridiculous.
“ Yeah, sure. because that’s where all the good things are, right? buried somewhere no one can reach. makes sense. ”
he leans his head back again, eyes closing— not to sleep, not yet, but to block out the nothingness of the space, the way it seems to press in when there is nothing else to focus on.
for a moment, it works.
the thought fades.
the quiet settles back in.
and then—
“ …No one comes back from there. ”
his eyes open,
slowly.
he stares at the ceiling again, expression unreadable, breath steady, posture unchanged.
“ …Great, ” he mutters. “ that’s exactly what i was hoping to hear. . . ”
.
there’s a pause.
a longer one.
long enough that it almost feels like the thought has passed again.
almost.
his fingers tap once more against his knee.
once.
twice.
stop.
“ …But if it’s real… ”
he doesn’t finish it.
doesn’t need to.
the words hang there anyway, unfinished but understood, carrying more weight in their absence than they would have if spoken aloud.
if it’s real—
he could leave.
not just the room.
not just the street.
everything.
the dust. the heat. the endless repetition of days that never change, never offer anything more than what has already been given.
gone.
replaced.
something else.
his jaw tightens slightly. “ …Or i die in a cave chasing some stupid story. ”
a beat.
“ …Which, honestly, sounds about right. ”
another pause.
and then—
a quiet huff of breath, something almost like a laugh, though it lacks the energy to fully become one.
“ Wow. great options, really. love that for me. ”
he shifts again, pushing himself up just slightly, enough to change the angle of his posture, enough to make it feel like something has changed even if nothing actually has.
his gaze drifts toward the doorway—nothing more than an opening, uneven, leading back out into the narrow passage, into the city beyond.
it waits.
the same as always.
unchanged.
unmoving.
safe.
predictable.
“ …It’s probably fake! ” he says it firmly this time, as if stating it clearly enough will make it settle, will make the thought lose its hold, will make everything return to the way it was before he ever heard it.
“ Yeah. . . definitely fake. ”
a pause.
“ …but what if it’s not? ”
he stares at the doorway a little longer.
just a second too long.
“ …ugh. ”
his head drops forward, hand dragging down his face slowly, tiredly, as if the mere act of thinking about this has already exhausted him more than the entire day had.
“ Why does it always have to be like this? ” he mutters. “ Can’t it just be, like—obviously fake? or obviously real? no. . . it’s gotta be some ‘ maybe ' nonsense. ”
he exhales, long and low.
“ … I hate ‘maybe.’ ”
another pause.
longer.
quieter.
his fingers tap once more against his knee.
once.
twice.
stop.
“ …I’ll check it out. ”
it slips out before he can stop it.
he freezes slightly, like he’s just betrayed himself.
“ …Not because i believe it, ” he adds quickly, as if correcting something important. “ just to make sure it’s fake. ”
a beat.
“ …Yeah. ”
another.
“ … And if it’s not fake— ”
he cuts himself off again.
his jaw tightens.
his gaze flicks toward the doorway once more,
then away.
“ …I’ll deal with that when i get there. ”
silence settles again.
heavy.
unchanged.
but something beneath it has shifted.
just slightly.
just enough.
and this time—
it stays.
—
morning does not arrive.
it simply… resumes.
the same pale, unmoving light presses down over the city, unchanged, uninterrupted, as if the hours in between had done nothing at all. the air carries the same weight, the same thickness that settles into lungs and lingers there, familiar and unwelcome in equal measure. nothing feels new. nothing feels different.
only continuation.
the streets fill again—not suddenly, not all at once, but in that slow, inevitable way, bodies slipping back into motion as if they had never stopped. the murmur returns, low and constant, footsteps overlapping, fabric brushing, presence against presence without acknowledgment, without pause.
and within it—
he moves.
Leorio does not hesitate this time.
there is no lingering thought, no visible distraction, no outward sign that anything has shifted beneath the surface. his pace falls easily into rhythm, shoulders angled just enough, steps placed with the same quiet precision as before.
but there is something… sharper.
not enough to be seen.
just enough to be felt.
his attention does not drift as loosely now. it anchors, briefly, deliberately, before slipping away again. his gaze lingers half a second longer than necessary on certain details—the weight of a pouch at someone’s hip, the way fingers loosen around a folded piece of cloth, the careless exposure of something meant to be kept close.
he does not rush.
he never does.
—
the first is easy.
a man near the edge of the street, distracted, his focus turned toward something being argued over a few paces away. his grip on the small cloth bag at his side is loose—too loose. it hangs slightly open, the edge folded back just enough to reveal its contents.
bread.
not fresh. never fresh. but intact.
Leorio passes close—just close enough.
his shoulder brushes lightly against the man’s arm, an apology already half-formed in the tilt of his head, the subtle shift of his posture.
“ Watch it!— ”
the complaint barely finishes.
the bag is already lighter.
and the bread—
gone.
it disappears as easily as it was seen, tucked away, concealed within the folds of fabric that hang just loose enough to hide it, just natural enough to avoid suspicion.
the man checks a moment later.
of course he does.
his hand dips into the bag, pauses, searches again—slower this time, more deliberate.
confusion settles.
Leorio is already elsewhere.
—
the second requires more care.
a woman, older, her movements slower but not careless. the pouch at her waist is tied tight, knotted twice, secured with the kind of attention that suggests experience—someone who has learned, over time, what happens when things are left unguarded.
coins.
he can hear them.
faint.
just enough.
he doesn’t go for the pouch directly.
that would be obvious.
instead, he adjusts.
his path curves slightly, intersecting with hers not head-on, but at an angle—enough to disrupt, enough to create a moment. his hand brushes against her sleeve first, light, almost accidental, just enough to draw her attention there, to shift her awareness away from where it matters.
“ Ah—sorry. ”
it’s quiet. believable. already fading as he moves past.
but in that moment—
his other hand works.
quick.
precise.
the knot loosens—not undone, just enough. just enough for two fingers to slip inside, to hook, to pull.
a few coins.
not all.
never all.
that would be noticed too quickly.
the pouch settles back against her side, still tied, still present, still convincing in its weight.
she checks it anyway.
of course she does.
her hand finds it. presses. feels the shape, the familiar form, the reassurance of something still there.
it is enough.
she moves on.
Leorio quite does the same.
—
the third is almost unnecessary,
but he takes it anyway.
a strip of dried meat, poorly wrapped, held too loosely in someone’s grasp as they argue, their attention entirely elsewhere. it takes no effort at all—just timing. just the briefest moment where the hand opens wider than it should.
and then—
nothing.
it’s gone.
the argument continues.
no one notices.
by the time he steps away from the thicker part of the street, the weight of what he’s taken settles against him—light, but present.
bread,
a few coins,
dried meat,
not much.
enough.
always enough.
—
the passageway waits where it had before.
unchanged,
quiet.
the air shifts as he steps into it, the noise of the street dulling behind him, replaced by that familiar stillness that seems to settle more easily here, as if the space itself has no interest in carrying anything beyond what already exists within it
.
they’re there again,
of course they are.
not in the exact same positions, not in any way that suggests planning or intention, but close enough to feel the same. bodies leaned against walls, seated along the edges, their presence scattered yet contained within the narrow space.
nothing about them draws attention.
nothing about them asks for it.
Leorio slips in without acknowledgment.
the same as before.
no greeting. no glance. just presence.
he settles into a space that had not been occupied a moment ago—or perhaps had been, and simply went unnoticed. it doesn’t matter. nothing here does.
he leans back against the wall, posture loose, expression unreadable, gaze unfocused in that familiar way that suggests disinterest, distance, a complete lack of engagement with anything happening around him.
he looks like he isn’t listening.
like he doesn’t care.
like he’s already somewhere else.
voices, again.
low.
contained.
but clearer here.
“ …Told you it wasn’t just talk! ”
a pause.
“ …Got something this time. ”
fabric shifts.
a faint sound—paper, worn, handled too many times.
“ …Map? ”
the word settles heavier than the rest.
“ …Not exact, ” another voice mutters. “ but close enough. ”
“ …You sure? ”
“ …As sure as anyone gets with this kind of thing. ”
a quiet scoff follows.
“ …Cave doesn’t show itself easy. ”
“ …doesn’t need to. ”
silence.
then—
“ …We go at night. ”
it’s decided just like that.
not formally.
not clearly.
just… understood.
the bandits barely spared Leorio a glance as he slipped past them, already turning back to their murmured plans and half-drawn maps—
until one of them stopped talking.
a pause. then, slowly—
all of them looked up.
at him.
© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
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