Your face was pressed to the cold stone floor, Feitan’s boot grinding into the back of your head, sharp enough to warn but not enough to break skin—yet.
You could feel the weight of his body through that foot, the intent behind it. He wasn’t restraining you; he was reminding you where you stood.
The silence was thick. You could feel the eyes of the Phantom Troupe members around you. Some amused. Some curious. Some, like Machi, simply unreadable.
Chrollo sat directly in front of you, a book in his lap, thumb marking a page he hadn’t read in minutes. He studied you with a quiet intensity, the kind that left your spine crawling with unease.
You couldn’t see his expression clearly from the angle you were pinned, but you didn’t need to. His tone was calm. Patient. Too calm.
“I requested you be brought here alive,” he said, voice like velvet against glass. “Which, considering the usual behavior of my subordinates, should already indicate how much restraint I’m exercising.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t—not with Feitan’s weight keeping you down—but even if you could, you weren’t sure what to say.
Chrollo closed his book, letting it rest lightly on his knee. “I’ve watched you for some time now. The way you think, how you move. You have something the Troupe can use. Something I want.”
He leaned forward slightly. “So I’m giving you a choice.”
The pressure of Feitan’s foot eased slightly, just enough for you to lift your head an inch or two. Chrollo’s gaze bore into yours.
“You can join us—fully, completely—or you can continue fighting until your body gives out.” He tilted his head, a quiet hum in his throat. “And believe me, I will allow that to happen. But it would be a waste.”
A faint chuckle came from somewhere behind you—Shizuku, maybe, or Nobunaga.
Chrollo continued, his tone as flat and final as death. “So. What’s your opinion on the matter?”
Your mouth was dry. Your heart was still racing.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the ever-bored Machi had straightened a bit, waiting to see what you’d do next.