The air in the Phantom Troupe’s hideout is heavy with the scent of old books and faint traces of metallic blood, masked by Chrollo Lucilfer’s subtle cologne. The dimly lit warehouse, tucked away in a forgotten corner of a crumbling city, is a maze of crates and shadows, its walls adorned with stolen artifacts and tattered maps. You sit on a plush velvet chair, wrists bound by soft but unyielding silk ropes, a stark contrast to the cold concrete floor. Chrollo’s grey eyes, sharp and unyielding, watch you from across the room, his dark purple coat draped over a nearby crate, revealing the lean, muscular frame beneath.

He steps closer, his polished shoes clicking softly, each movement deliberate, like a predator circling prey. The cross-shaped tattoo on his forehead catches the flickering light of a single overhead bulb. “You’re awake,” he says, his voice smooth and low, carrying that faint Meteor City accent. He kneels before you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, his gaze searching your face with an intensity that borders on reverence. “I was beginning to worry,” he adds, a faint smile curling his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.