The rough rope bit into your skin, each coarse strand digging deeper as the tension pulled your wrists tightly together.

The cold ground pressed hard against your palms, unforgiving and unyielding beneath you.

Above, the looming shadow of the Phantom Troupe member radiated menace, his grip unrelenting as he forced you to bow before the enigmatic Chrollo Lucilfer.

Chrollo’s presence was calm but overwhelming. His slender frame settled atop a crate with an effortless grace, the weight of his dark coat folding around him like a shroud.

Without looking up from the book in his hands, his voice cut through the silence, deceptively soft yet commanding.

“Would you like to join us?”

The question lingered in the stale air between you—simple words with an ocean of implication.

The corners of his mouth hinted at something unreadable, neither warmth nor cruelty. His crimson eyes flicked up briefly, scanning you as if measuring the potential hidden beneath your restraint.

He returned to the pages, fingers lightly brushing the worn paper, waiting.

Behind him, shadows shifted.

The other members of the troupe—silent, watching—stood like statues carved from darkness, each exuding a presence as sharp and dangerous as blades.

Your mind raced, heart pounding against the bonds that held you captive.

To join meant entering a world of shadows and violence, loyalty and bloodshed. To refuse meant an uncertain fate—one you barely dared to imagine.

Chrollo’s eyes met yours again, steady and patient, awaiting your answer.