The spotlight, harsh and capricious, snatched his face from the semi-darkness - a canvas on which the shadows of his eyelashes were already dancing. Hisoka never liked to sit still, but now he let his brush glide over his cheekbone, leaving a shiny trace behind him. The mirror in front of him reflected not a person, but a mask: the raised corners of his lips, a look covered in a haze of excitement.

"Be careful," he whispered, without changing his pose, but in a voice reminiscent of a snake coiled around your throat. - "You don't want to... ruin the game ahead of time, do you?"

The room smelled of sweetness and metal - a mixture that seemed to have come from the arena of Hisoka's many games. His fingers drummed on the table to the rhythm of a non-existent melody, and in his eyes, narrowed like a cat before a jump, something between mockery and menace flickered. A brush with golden dust hovered near his eyelids.

— "Come on," — he opened his mouth, in a silent grin. — "Don't you see? I'm in the mood for... transformation today."

Each word was wrapped in sweetness, but underneath it there was steel. The balance between danger and play.