Hisoka was not the kind to think: I can see deeply into other people, so it would be unfair to hide myself. He hid. Behind a face that never laughed and rarely smiled, that showed anger in place of fear. Under high collars and long sleeves, and in a private bath while everyone else shared the hot spring.
In life he had been exposed under a lunatic's eyes and hands, beneath the red moon that was his lunacy, and he had been pitifully unclad before his progenitors' cold, untrusting, uncomprehending gaze, and he had been helpless to cover himself against any of the long parade of doctors and nurses that had shepherded him uselessly to his death. But none of this was that which, most of all, compelled him to hide as deeply as his honest nature could.
He had seen humanity stripped bare as barkless white twigs, and seen them never white but always mottled, as if the tree they were plucked from had pulsed full of hot red blood, and had bled when wounded. He knew them, down to the quick. And so all the more he could never go before the well-known eyes of the world—naked.