Chapter Text
Mito drove in silence for hours. The journey was long and heavy, but there was something more oppressive than the silence that drowned them.
It was eight in the morning. The sun shone several meters above the horizon. Gon was sitting in the passenger seat, gazing out the window. His eyes shifted between the sky, dotted with numerous flocks of birds, and the dense forest made up of endless rows of pine trees.
Sometimes, his gaze would wander until it settled on the road, so desolate it seemed as sad as the squawking of the birds. The asphalt, faded by the sun and the evident lack of people, wrapped the rural landscape in a depressing gray aura.
Mito remained steadfast at the wheel, moving the lever and shifting gears, his knuckles white from the force with which he gripped the steering wheel.
The silence inside the vehicle was desolate. During the first few hours, Mito had turned on the radio, but the local stations only talked about today's date: May 1st.
The Long Walk began today. The fifty chosen youths would show face for the country and honor the annual tradition. And the speeches, instead of being encouraging, inspired fear and anguish. Mito couldn't stand even ten minutes of listening to them before turning it off immediately.
There was nothing good to say about that day.
Gon also had nothing to say.
He hadn't dared to speak. He didn't want to upset the woman further. He remained as quiet as possible, fearful of unleashing another argument. He preferred to look out the window and drown in the abysmal silence. Even in his mind, he refrained from formulating any thoughts.
He didn't consider himself a particularly reflective person. Even in circumstances like these, he couldn't find the necessary will to terrify himself with superstitions or abstract ideas; there were already enough myths surrounding the Long Walk. He didn't need more. For about a week—the approximate time between the drawing of lots and the acceptance letter he found in his mailbox—Gon's mind had remained in a state of shock.
He wasn't afraid yet. He wasn't sad yet. He might even say his dissociation from reality was so great that he felt happy. The adrenaline wasn't yet coursing through his bloodstream, but soon.
In the meantime, he distracted himself with the landscape and, out of the corner of his eye, made sure his aunt kept driving in the right direction. They had left in the early hours and had already been on the road for several hours. Soon, the silence would give way to one last talk, a farewell.
Gon had resigned himself, and surely, Mito had too; there was no other explanation to justify his lack of reaction.
"You don't have to do this."
Gon turned to look at his aunt. So many hours without hearing her voice, he thought he had forgotten what it sounded like. She was still looking at the road, her knuckles still white.
"There's still time, Gon. We could… we could run away," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"I can't, Mito."
The woman's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, as if she wanted to deform it with her grasp. She didn't look at Gon. She sealed her lips tightly, and the tension accentuated her jawline. The teenager thought they would return to silence, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure whether to return his gaze to the window or keep waiting for a reaction from Mito.
"I don't understand why you're so stubborn," she pronounced her words carefully. Gon knew she would never understand his reasons or his yearnings, what the Walk—and only the Walk—could offer him. Gon didn't blame her. "You insist and insist, you're so obstinate, just like your father."
"The last day to withdraw was yesterday, Mom."
The boy's words hung in the air. The oxygen inside the vehicle compressed until it disappeared, and Gon couldn't breathe. Mito's shoulders trembled and his eyes shone, with that characteristic glint of someone about to cry and explode with anger.
"You're so selfish!"
And so it was.
"So, so! so selfish…!" The first tears ran down his cheeks, they were timid. "I don't understand how… how I raised such a selfish boy."
But his words, on the other hand, were direct. A painful pang pierced his chest, each word stabbing a vital point. Gon averted his gaze and swallowed any response he might have formulated. They were all excuses. None would be of any use.
After all, Mito was right.
That argument had been repeated a dozen times, especially during the last week. The conclusion was always the same: the sky is blue, roses are red, and Gon Freecss is selfish. That Mito's crying didn't stop his madness confirmed it; he preferred to focus on the hum of the engine instead of his aunt's growing sobs.
His pain was one that Gon caused. He knew it. But Gon couldn't stop it. Not anymore.
Although she believed otherwise, it hurt Gon just as much to hear her cry as it burned to feel the sun on his skin. However, both things were inevitable.
He wasn't going to back down. He would resign himself to the pain, to the shame of causing this suffering, he would remain silent and accept the reprimands, but he would never give up his goal. Good things would come soon. The sacrifice would be worth it, all debts would be settled between them, and Gon would live satisfied.
The pain wouldn't last forever.
"You'd better not die, Freecss," he raised his voice, "because I will never forgive you! Do you hear me? You can't die out there!"
"I don't plan to die there, Mito."
Gon's gaze got lost among the trees, complete rows that went on and on, as if the forest were infinite and the pines too. The window was closed, but he could imagine the smell of the breeze, somewhat woody and very fresh, a little dirty from the dust accumulated on the road. Gon's legs were numb from all the time he had been sitting, but these were his last minutes of rest, so he tried to enjoy them to the fullest.
His eyes met a bird flying in the distance, which, unlike the ones he had seen before, traveled alone across the blue sky, as if fleeing.
"I'm determined to give it my all. Please don't worry, none of this is your fault," Gon murmured, forcing a comforting smile.
Mito sobbed.
"Your dad, Gon, you know that—"
"Don't say it, please," Gon wanted to pass through the car window, get out of the vehicle, spread his wings, and take flight to the highest point in the sky, where he couldn't hear him cry.
Luckily, Mito fell silent once more.
Gon lost sight of the solitary bird.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at their destination. Every year, the starting line of the Walk was always the same: a small military base, distinguished by a guard post that welcomed the Walkers, and at least a dozen soldiers; armed with carbines and pistols in the side holsters of their belts, trained to exert any necessary violence. On their shoulders was a distinctive patch of the Hunter Association. They weren't conventional soldiers; they belonged to the Squads in charge of monitoring and enforcing the rules during the Walks.
Gon observed the halftrack parked in the middle of the road; it was like a metalized monster from hell, of the same model used in the War. Next to it were two military Jeeps.
Gon wasn't scared.
The numbness installed in his body allowed him to contemplate the danger and not react; he saw the robotic movements of the soldiers and inhaled the strong smell of metal in the air, but his brain made no effort to process it. Maybe it was his own decision. He still didn't want to face it. Not yet.
Gon had always been a bit slow compared to his high school classmates, anyway. His brain worked with little haste. Everyone said he was stupid. But what sixteen-year-old boy isn't?
One of the military men jogged up to the vehicle and knocked on the window with his knuckles. His dull eyes were more intimidating than the weapon he carried on his belt. Gon exchanged a second of eye contact with him.
Mito rolled down the window and handed the soldier the acceptance letter; Gon was representing Ainem.
He had the dubious luck of being the representative of the state where the Long Walk took place every year, which granted him a certain reputation and popularity among bettors and hardcore fans. He was the Golden Boy.
"You go ahead up to here," the soldier indicated, "he must line up with the other boys."
Mito nodded without saying anything to the man. He stopped to the side of the entrance to the military base, the engine dying after a rigid movement of his wrist turning the keys, and leaned back in his seat.
He held back a final breath.
His eyes were red, dark circles marked, his entire face pale, the bun that held his hair undone. He hadn't slept the night before, nor had he eaten dinner. His characteristic look of exhaustion had been reinforced by the excessive worry and anxiety of this past week. Gon recognized himself as the absolute culprit.
He didn't want to worry Mito. But this is how things were.
Mito looked at him. With a fragile softness, as if fighting the urge to cry and about to lose. The intensity in his eyes was so great that Gon held his breath. An icy gust seeped into his bones; the jumble of conflicting emotions from his aunt transmitted to him. Gon could have surrendered and cried before him right then, but he didn't.
He couldn't afford it. It would be hypocritical; he wasn't sorry yet; this was what he wanted.
"It's time," said Gon, his mouth dry.
He hurried to get out of the vehicle.
He planted his first foot on the pavement and his stomach clenched; the air smelled of something he didn't quite recognize. He could hear voices in the distance along with an unknown buzz; similar to cicadas in summer. Gon felt a sense of dread. But he didn't cower.
He slung his yellow backpack over his shoulder, the same one he used as a child, and brushed off his jeans. When his legs stretched, the tingling in his thighs instantly dissipated. The heat of the sun, opposite to the cool ventilation inside the car, enveloped him completely.
The sky above his head was the most beautiful blue, the walls of the guard post were a cream color, and the soldiers' uniforms were navy blue.
Gon took a deep breath.
He walked around the hood of the vehicle. He saw Mito get out and approach, shaking the keys in his hand, intercepting him in a strong hug. Gon gasped when he pounced on him. He hugged him with the same force.
"Forgive me, I'm not angry, Gon, really… I didn't mean to yell at you, you're not selfish," he resumed his crying.
Gon wrapped his arms around him and Mito hugged his neck. He felt small, smaller than a thirty-five-year-old woman should feel; as if he would break at the slightest touch. Gon wanted to shelter him. But he didn't have the will to stay even a second longer; if he did, he would feel as small as Mito, like when he was a child and Mito was big in his eyes.
"You're so brave, I know you're doing this for us but… I'm just scared," Now he was small, living sad and dejected. "I'm scared for you."
"I know, Mom. Everything will be fine… okay? Everything will be fine," Gon stroked his head. He nodded. His tears wet his shirt. "It'll only be a few days, I'll see you in a few days."
Mito's sobs worsened; maybe those weren't the right words. Gon wasn't sure how to console him. He clung to him with more force, the occasional spasms in his chest making him tremble.
"I can't, I can't do this…"
"I'll be fine. We'll be fine."
Gon looked at the pavement. He breathed in Mito's floral fragrance one last time, the one he always used to wash clothes. Lavender. It was that kind of comforting smell; similar to wet earth after rain or newly bloomed roses in spring. Everything about Mito, in a way, was comforting.
Despite his fragile build, Gon had always felt safe in his aunt's arms.
Now, Gon didn't believe he conveyed that feeling to him. He wasn't comforting him; he was saying goodbye; in short, abandoning. Just like his father had done, many, many years ago. But what else could he do? There were things he yearned for, and there was only one way to get them.
Certainly, he didn't smell of comfort; most likely he smelled of teenage stubbornness and stupidity; sweat, dust, and a cursed inheritance. He was the son of Ging Freecss, after all. He didn't know how to say goodbye, he only knew how to leave.
Mito hugged him for a good while before finally letting go. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and nodded.
"Okay, I love you."
"Me too."
"I packed… I packed everything you like! An apple, also cookies. I put toilet paper and a couple of aspirin… I think that's enough, right? What do you say, son?" Mito's hands trembled.
"Yes, yes, thank you very much," Gon scratched the back of his neck, "it's more than enough, it's a lot."
"Okay, okay… good luck. It's fine, it's fine. You can go now," Mito took several steps back, looked both ways before giving his boy one last look: tall, sturdy, a man grown and fully formed. In his eyes, still a child.
Mito circled the car and approached the driver's door. The spring breeze ruffled his red strands once more. Just like his clothes, which seemed to hang from his body, as if in just a few days he had lost many kilos.
He smiled at him.
"Good luck, Gon!"
He forced another smile. He didn't take long to look away and head towards the halftrack. There, he gave his aunt one last glance, who hesitantly got into his car and started the engine once more. After a roar, Gon waved goodbye. And in a few seconds, he saw him back out and drive away.
He stood still for a few seconds. With the same awkwardness any teenager would have at being alone in an unknown place.
Mito's vehicle disappeared in the distance, in the opposite direction of the road where Gon would begin to walk in a few minutes. Gon's mind went blank, but his stomach clenched as if he were going to vomit. He had really left. And for some indecipherable reason, it stunned Gon.
"Kid, get moving," a soldier pointed the way.
His feet felt heavy and his ankles chained to something invisible, but he forced himself to move. He circled the halftrack vehicle and approached the right shoulder of the road, where the boys who would participate in this year's Walk could be distinguished.
It was spring. The sun shone. The air was thick. The trees of the forest hemmed him in and Gon could hardly believe that most likely he would never see Mito's little faded car again.
It would only be a few days, but how long would those days be?
As he approached the group he saw about forty young people; they weren't all there yet. Gon heard the buzz of another car approaching the military base; for a second he thought it might be Mito returning, but that was ridiculous. All the boys were young, between sixteen and twenty-one years old. They had grouped into various clusters, some were sitting alone, all came prepared with small backpacks—or fanny packs, in some cases—and somber expressions. Apparently, Gon was one of the last to arrive. They all looked him up and down, as if he were an intruder.
Gon took a seat among a relatively scattered group of boys, who, despite their tense eyebrows and hunched shoulders, were talking. He decided to listen and observe.
"I've studied the Advice Manual thirty times, seriously, man," a boy next to him spoke. He had dark skin, with red, braided hair.
"Yeah, yeah. When you get tired, are you going to recite the rules to the Hunters? That won't do any good," another boy replied, laughing in his face.
"At least I know a trick or two! Can you even read, buddy? Seriously, what the manual says is very useful," the boy with braids huffed, dressed in a thin sweatshirt and purple shorts. "My name is Ikalgo, by the way! And I plan to win this Long Walk."
The same boy as before, the one who laughed at Ikalgo, mocked him again. He doubled over his stomach laughing, even wiping away tears.
"My name is Leorio Paladiknight. And I don't think those tricks will help you win, kid, but believe me…" his smile widened, there were a few seconds of silence and Gon noticed how tall he was and his strange attire.
He wore a white button-up shirt, a black tie—unnecessarily formal for the occasion—and a windbreaker jacket. It wasn't the comfortable, practical attire the Manual recommended for attending the Walk, it didn't even match.
"I'm going home with those wads of bills in my pockets!" he boasted, adjusting his glasses.
At least he'll look good at his funeral, Gon thought with amusement, and didn't know where that cruel thought came from. He shook his head and thought of something else, he estimated Leorio to be about nineteen or twenty years old.
Anyway, he was nobody to judge; he came to the Walk in jeans. His fashion sense was also terrible.
"Someone who wears a tie to the Walk shouldn't be making fun of others," another boy intervened; he was blonde and slender, with piercing gray eyes.
"Huh? And what about you, you moron!"
"Nothing, I'm just correcting scum like you. Leave that boy alone." The boy glared at Leorio, who responded with an obscene gesture.
Ikalgo looked away, playing dumb. The blonde boy was about to reply, his mouth opened, but was interrupted.
"Hey, guys! Don't fight, you'll get us in trouble."
It was a visibly younger boy. Short, with brown hair and prominent eyebrows. He was flushed, sweating, and pacing back and forth on the edge of the shoulder, his fingers trembling.
Everyone in the little group turned to look at him, including Gon. The boy shrank under the gazes, turning even redder; Leorio looked at him with disdain from head to toe.
"Brat, how old are you?" Leorio growled at him.
"Uh… my name is Zushi," the boy's feet staggered as he took a step back, a tense smile stretching his lips. "I just turned eighteen! Last month, actually…"
"Yeah, right. If you're even fifteen, I'll eat my shoes," Leorio raised an eyebrow.
Ikalgo laughed, and the blonde boy suppressed a smile. Zushi, on the other hand, blushed to his ears, immediately looking away.
"What about you, huh? Did you turn eighteen too, kid?" Leorio spoke to him.
"I'm sixteen, I'll be seventeen soon. My name is Gon."
"Nice to meet you, Gon. Call me Leorio."
Leorio extended his hand, and Gon accepted the gesture, shaking it firmly. His smile was friendly, Gon couldn't help but smile back.
"Oh, no," Ikalgo whistled.
The blonde boy straightened up. Leorio withdrew his hand and turned his face towards the road. Ikalgo smiled. And that boy paled, as if he were about to wet himself right there.
The roar of an engine stopped the conversation.
Gon searched for the source of the noise: a Jeep Mojave moving slowly down the road, escorted by another halftrack raising a cloud of dust in its wake. They stopped several meters away and two of the Jeep's four doors swung open, accompanied by a loud whistle that rattled Gon's eardrums.
The silence that formed was sepulchral. Everyone fell silent. The same whistle sounded again, this time alarming the boys enough to make them stand up. First one, then another.
They lined up as if they were soldiers, and Gon followed them, unsure of what to do.
"The President of the Hunter Association, Commander-in-Chief Isaac Netero," a soldier exclaimed.
His name was recognized and feared. Isaac Netero had founded the Long Walk forty years ago, ten years after the war. In turn, he formed and trained the Hunter Squads, formalizing the event as it is known today: an opportunity to honor the country and promote hard work among the youth.
Gon had seen him in newspapers, always smiling; he had also heard him speak on the radio, his speech was always the same; seeing him in person for the first time, he wondered if he would repeat it.
"First of all, I wanted to congratulate you all on your bravery," the old man with white hair and beard stood on top of the military Jeep, rising above the Walkers, "one more year, one more walk, and a new group of brave young men come to represent their homes, their families, to show face for the country. As you already know, the purpose of this walk is to encourage the new generations towards hard work, towards determination."
Actually, Gon had thought he would be more threatening, someone like that must have a twisted mind. But seeing him, he seemed nothing more than a decrepit old man, a bit delirious. Why was he smiling like that? It turned Gon's stomach, a nauseating taste rose in his throat.
He smoothed his beard as he spoke, his wrinkled eyes shining with illusion. Gon was right; Netero was repeating the same speech. Words transformed into propaganda infectious enough to contaminate the brains of several generations, one after another.
"There's an epidemic of laziness among the young! We must recover the spirit! Human potential… cannot stagnate."
Gon fiddled with the straps of his backpack. Beside him, Leorio shifted uncomfortably. And that blonde boy was frowning, with a terrifying spark in his eyes.
"You will walk until only one of you remains. I hope you have read the Advice and Instructions Manual; a lot of money was spent on those color copies. It will be of great help to you…! My favorite advice, as always, is the one about sports socks; they are padded, prevent blisters…" The old man spoke in a cheerful, almost frenetic tone of voice. He clapped, smiled, and continued. "Also, remember not to bother your fellow walkers. Annually, at least ten participants are disqualified for actively bothering or trying to sabotage another walker."
Next, Netero cleared his throat.
"If you stop, or slow down, you will be given a warning. If you don't speed up in ten seconds, you will be given another warning; three warnings and you're out. Do you understand? No exceptions." Netero smoothed his uniform, an old-fashioned white robe, very different from the neat navy blue uniform of the Squads. "I wish you all good luck, boys. Oh, I almost forgot! Almost, almost, what a mind I have. I will call you one by one to come collect your tags, so we can identify you."
Netero pointed at them.
"Sit down! Tip number thirteen: save energy whenever you can. Read the manual, boys!"
Everyone sat down at the same time. Resuming their initial positions, Gon hugged his knees, resting his chin on his forearm. All the boys shared looks with each other, as if disoriented.
There were a few seconds of silence before Commander Netero began to call them one by one, without following any particular order.
"Knuckle Bine, number 1."
A burly boy, dressed in a white tank top, approached Netero with his head held high.
He bowed his head and Netero placed the tracking tag around his neck. Gon had read that the bigger boys were the first to tire; how true could that be? He was bigger than average, but he wasn't nearly as voluptuous as that boy. Which of them would tire first? Gon wondered.
"Pokkle Reinhardt, number 2."
Knuckle returned to his spot. At the same time, another stood up; a cap stood out on his head, he walked with hunched shoulders and bent knees. He accepted the tag and watch without saying a word and returned to his seat.
Thus, Netero called each of the boys, handing them their identification tags and watches. At first glance, they were accessories.
However, each served a particular function. Both were inventions of the highest technology of the Association: each tag was connected to the monitors installed in the halftracks via satellite waves, so the Hunters always knew the exact position of the Walkers; they never lost sight of any quarry. On the other hand, the watches measured the kilometers traveled and speed per hour with impeccable precision; they were the perfect complement to the tracking tag.
The instruction manual boasted about them; Gon hadn't finished reading it, of course, but the glossary of the book mentioned them.
Time seemed to have slowed down. The boys went up quickly, but at the same time very slowly. It felt like hours. The emptiness in his stomach and the bad taste in his mouth remained, and the idea of being called in front of everyone made him sick. Still, Gon waited. Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other Walkers shifting in their spots, as uncomfortable as he was.
He saw many boys go up. Including that Ikalgo, who rocked on his flat sneakers, his braids brushing his shoulders. Leorio and that blonde boy went before Gon; their ways of walking contrasted with each other.
Leorio spat at Commander Netero's feet, unafraid of being accused of treason.
"Leorio Paladiknight, number 43."
The blonde boy did not bow to him.
"Kurapika Kurta, number 44."
Gon's eyes wandered among the strangers who passed by; some names and faces engraved themselves in his mind, others less so. However, there was one that caught his attention.
Perched on the lower branch of a pine tree, situated next to the road, a boy with white hair was eating a chocolate bar. He was a skinny, lanky boy, with skin as pale as a slab of snow and hair divided into voluptuous layers that brushed his shoulders. He wore a sweater, over it an unbuttoned plaid shirt. He was handsome. He was handsome in a way Gon had rarely noticed in anyone, perhaps because of how tall and exotic he was. How did someone like that end up in such a remote place as this?
"Killua Zoldyck, number 45."
The boy squeezed the chocolate wrapper into a ball and tossed it aside. He licked his thumb before jumping down from the tree and shaking off his shorts. He approached at a slow pace with his hands in his pockets. He exchanged no words with the Commander upon accepting the tag, returned, and climbed back onto the branch.
It was rude to stare at someone, but Gon couldn't help it. For some reason, that boy fascinated him.
His name resonated in Gon's mind, like the tinkling of a bell bouncing inside his skull. Killua. It sounded sophisticated. But that boy looked dangerous; his eyes were sharp, his expression serious; with his mouth sealed tightly and his brow furrowed. For a second, he caught Gon's gaze in the air.
A strange warm sensation, similar to a heat wave, filtered through Gon's chest and climbed to his face. Killua's eyes barely rested on him, but the exchange was enough to rattle Gon's nerves, even if it only lasted a second.
He didn't hear the next call. He also didn't hear Netero call his name. He heard nothing. He just stared at him. At him.
"Gon Freecss?"
"Man, they're calling you!" Leorio patted his shoulder, waking Freecss from his reverie.
Gon startled.
Pairs of eyes looked at him, between mocking and anguished; disobeying a call from the Commander could cost a life. Netero looked at him from his post, still smiling at him.
Gon forced himself to get up and walk towards him, with trembling knees and flushed cheeks.
Netero's smile, petrified on his face, seemed somber. As he approached, he extended the tag to him, while handing him the watch: a digital one, announcing three different numbers; the time, 8:39 a.m., and two zeros, which would change once the walk began. Gon's hands trembled as he held them.
"Number 47," Netero looked him up and down, something in his expression twisted. "Freecss, right?"
Gon's thumb slid over the tag that now hung around his neck, caressing the smooth surface. The small LED light embedded in it blinked red upon registering movement.
"Yes, sir."
Netero let out a hum, pensive. His hand brushed Gon's shoulder; the touch was enough to make the teenager shudder. Gon immediately stepped back, barely a step.
"Good luck then, boy," Netero smiled knowingly, whispering to him. "Your father will be proud."
Gon swallowed.
As he walked back to his spot, he felt President Netero's eyes on his back, as if he had him in his sights. Being in a Hunter's sights? Who would want something like that? A knot of nerves tightened his stomach.
However, his heart began to beat with force and those words played on a loop in his head, encouraging him to cling to that fantasy that had convinced him, in the first place, to come here. Your father will be proud. Yes, hopefully.
All the boys were identified by a number from one to fifty, the total number of walkers. They waited twenty more minutes, between chats, insults, and obscene jokes, until nine o'clock struck. The halftracks started their engines and began to move, the two Jeeps as well. A whistle shook their eardrums, a soldier began shouting at them, giving instructions. Other soldiers approached to distribute belts with provisions and canteens with water.
It was time. The Long Walk was about to begin.
The sun imposed itself from high in the sky. Gon put on his cap in an attempt to shield himself from the burning glare. The breeze blew warm, salty on his tongue, somewhat sticky on his skin. He made sure to tie his hiking boot laces tightly, the most suitable ones he could get for a marathon like this. The Walkers arranged themselves in several rows, five by five, each stretching, or drinking water, or urinating by the side of the road. They all took advantage in their own way of the last minutes of peace they had left. The silence was deafening.
He saw those around him: to his left was Leorio, cleaning his glasses with his shirt sleeve, as if part of a preparation ritual. Ikalgo smiled, holding his new canteen in his hands. A boy in his row, Gon thought he heard his name was Meleoron, bit his nails nervously.
He also saw the blonde boy, Kurapika, praying behind him; hands together, eyes closed, and his expression strangely serene.
Boy number 45, Killua, was in the front line. Gon got distracted looking at his hair, the silhouette of his broad shoulders. As if it were the most beautiful thing in the entire landscape, saturated with trees, carbines, and people who, in not much time, would be nothing more than corpses.
"May God bless you," Netero laughed from atop his Jeep and blew the whistle one last time.
Before Gon could even process it, his feet had already begun to walk.