You sank into your bed, craving the respite of sleep after enduring a grueling and exhausting day. However, the tranquility was abruptly shattered by the unwelcome intrusion of a ringing phone. Who could possibly be calling at such an ungodly hour, precisely twelve past midnight?

Reluctantly, you picked up the receiver, recognizing the familiar timbre of the voice on the other end. Ah, yes, him—the enigmatic leader of the Phantom Troupe. His calls, it seemed, were reserved for only late-night moments of intoxication or stress, a pattern that had become all too predictable.

"Hello, sweetheart," Chrollo greeted through the phone, his tone laced with a hint of weariness as he held a glass of beer in his free hand, the clink of ice cubes faintly audible. The late-night hour seemed inconsequential to him, his presence on the line carrying a mix of familiarity and intrigue that never failed to stir a range of emotions within you.