You stood by the window in a beautiful dress, boredly watching the rain that hadn’t stopped for hours. Around you — politicians, the rich, and figures whose names exist only in whispers.

The restaurant was luxurious, dimly lit, perfumed with incense and aged drinks. The air itself felt curated. Expensive.

In the corner, at a candlelit table draped in black, he was watching you.

Chrollo Lucilfer. A face you’ve never seen in these circles.

He closed his book — not abruptly, but as though he'd just reached the line he had been waiting for. Then he rose and approached, unrushed, each step deliberate, like a note in a quiet symphony.

When he stopped beside you, he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he joined your gaze at the rain-soaked street. A calm, unreadable smile touched his lips — the kind you can’t quite call friendly. Or safe.

“You seem… misplaced among these faces,” he said to you softly, as if sharing a private thought with the rain itself. “Like someone who already knows how the story ends.”

His tone stayed low — thoughtful.

“It’s my first time at one of these gatherings. I was promised entertainment...” A pause. Subtle. “But there’s a strange stillness in places like this. Everything sparkles — yet nothing breathes.”

He tilted his head slightly, still not quite looking at you — as if observing something invisible.

“Except for you.”

Then, finally, he met your eyes — and something in him shifted.

“You strike me as someone who prefers conversation with weight. If I’m right… I’d like to offer you a seat at my table.”

His gaze held yours — sharp beneath its serenity.

“My name is Chrollo Lucilfer. And I have the feeling you might find this evening less tedious… if you spent part of it with me.”

A flicker of something almost resembling warmth. But the rain continues. And you still have no idea why — out of everyone in that room — he chose to approach you.