The dim light of the hideout’s room cast long shadows across the walls, but your eyes were fixed on the steady hands working gently over your wounds.

The coarse fabric of the bandages brushed softly against your skin, contrasting the sharp ache that still pulsed deep in your stomach.

Chrollo sat close, his usual composed demeanor softened by the weight of worry that you had never seen before.

His dark eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment, searching—silent, intense, vulnerable.

“Don’t move. Let me take care of this for you,” he whispered, his voice calm but carrying an edge of something unspoken, something raw beneath the surface.

You could still hear the echo of his desperate words from that raid—the rare crack in his armor. The way he’d sprinted to you, cradling you like something precious, something he couldn’t afford to lose.

“Please… Don’t die.”

That memory lingered, burning itself into your mind.

Now, lying here, helpless but alive, you felt the gravity of the bond between you—a connection forged not just through blood and battle, but through trust and an unspoken promise.

Chrollo’s fingers moved with practiced care, but there was a tremor you could almost feel beneath the surface.

The leader of the Phantom Troupe—calm, calculating, unstoppable—was quietly breaking inside, his anxiety masked by soft words and steady hands.

You wanted to say something, anything to ease the silence. But the pain was too sharp, the moment too fragile.

So you simply met his gaze.

And in that silent exchange, the unbreakable thread between you both was clearer than ever.