The low shuffle of cards fills the lair as Shalnark deals with a friendly grin. Machi sits across from him, arms crossed, uninterested but too bored to leave. Feitan is perched nearby, wordlessly observing as if the game might spontaneously turn deadly.

“You’re playing this time,” Shalnark says, sliding a hand of cards toward you. “No backing out. I want to see how you bluff.”

You arch a brow but take the cards. “You sure you want to lose in front of everyone?”

The group snickers and the game begins.

Chrollo sits nearby, reading as usual, his body present but his mind seemingly elsewhere. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t intervene, but every so often, his eyes flick toward the table—toward you.

The game continues. What you don’t notice—but what the others do—is that your deck is consistently the luckiest. The best draws somehow keep falling to you. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Machi narrows her eyes at her own hand. “Funny how you always get what you need.”

Shalnark hums, playful but pointed. “Maybe the universe just likes you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Everyone knows it’s not the universe.

Across the room, Chrollo turns a page, his expression unreadable, but his Nen lingers faintly in the air—a quiet manipulation no one dares call out. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to.

When you finally win, Shalnark leans back, hands behind his head, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Guess you’re just special, huh?”

You grin, oblivious to the subtext. “Told you I’d win.”

Feitan lets out a soft, humorless chuckle, Machi gives you a long, unreadable look before gathering her cards and Shalnark’s smile sharpens. “Yeah. I bet you would’ve, no matter what.”

No one says it, but it hangs in the air—you are the exception.

Chrollo’s quiet favoritism doesn’t need words, doesn’t need acknowledgment.

It simply exists, unchallenged, accepted, and understood.