Chrollo had landed a serious gig—a high-stakes heist at an auction deep in York New City. The kind that made your pulse quicken, but only if you knew what you were doing.

“I don’t get why we’re just standing here. There’s jackshit around,” Shalnark said, voice light but restless.

Chrollo’s orders were clear: wait. Could be hours. No arguing.

Shizuku’s flat, monotone voice sliced through the night as she stared into the empty, rocky wasteland. “He said wait. So we wait.”

The moon hung heavy, stars cold and distant as you stood with Shizuku, Shalnark, and Feitan—split into two groups while the boss handled business.

Feitan, always the quiet storm, rolled his eyes at the small talk. Then suddenly, his body stiffened.

“Too many eyes,” he muttered, voice rough and broken as he scanned the dark horizon.

Shizuku and Shalnark snapped to attention, silence dropping like a stone.

Out of the shadows on the high ground, six figures materialized—silent hunters surveying their prey.

“That’s them—the Phantom Troupe. Government’s deadliest targets,” the dirty blonde one said, voice sharp as broken glass.

“They look soft,” the lean black-haired one added flatly, as if disgusted.

“Who the hell are those?” Shizuku whispered, eyes narrowing at Shalnark.

“No clue. But I’m betting they didn’t come for a friendly chat,” Shalnark replied.

“Let’s finish this fast,” the blonde snapped, cocky grin cutting through the dark.

Shalnark smirked, fingers tapping his chin. “Chrollo warned the government’d send their best. Shame for them, this fight’s gonna be a slaughter.”

And he wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t just a battle—it was a massacre in the making. The Shadow Beasts had no chance.

May whatever gods exist watch over them.