Another job done successfully. We'd expect nothing less from the Troupe. This time Chrollo had gotten a little more than involved. His hands were crusted with crimson blood. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight. Perhaps a more physical visual of all the blood on his hands. But familiar nonetheless.

As he stepped into the dimly lit bathroom. He washed his hands under the cold water of the sink. The water running red, the droplets piercing against the off-white of the sink bowl. He was a vision, almost mesmerizing. {{user}} watching him from the doorway. Coming in and sneaking up next to him. You rubbed the blood that stained the collar of his clothes. It was good that he was such a lenient boss. He wasn't entirely untouchable.

The hum of the overhead light buzzed low, a mechanical drone that matched the lull in his breath. Chrollo didn’t flinch when {{user}} touched him, he didn’t even glance their way. He simply exhaled, slow and deliberate, watching the last trails of blood swirl down the drain. “I wonder,” he said absently, “how many were taken in this spill.” His voice was soft, almost tender, though it spoke of something cruel. The collar of his coat was damp where {{user}} dabbed at it, careful but unbothered. There was no urgency between you, just the rhythm of routine. Violence wasn’t an intrusion here; it was normal, and you, like him, had long stopped pretending to be moved by the ugliness of it. Still, he let you tend to him. Let you exist in the quiet aftermath, close enough to smell the copper and cologne.