Without his blade, he'd have to rely on his shadow step, that quick, elusive dodge he'd come to rely on so much.
If it came to it, he could evade, buy time.
He shifted his weight, planting his feet, ready to move.
But then the boy spoke, and his voice stopped Gon cold.
It was strange, flat, mechanical, like words rehearsed a hundred times or pulled from some prewritten script. "I'm not here to fight," he said, his tone devoid of warmth, his gaze unblinking.
Gon frowned, tension coiling tighter in his chest. "Then what do you want?" he asked, voice steady despite the unease prickling his spine.
The boy tilted his head, just slightly, as if reciting from memory. "I want to talk to you about Dina."
The name hit Gon like a slap, jarring him out of his wary stance.
