The air in the abandoned cathedral was thick with dust and the metallic tang of blood. Moonlight slanted through the shattered rose window, painting jagged shards of light across the stone floor where a man in a fine suit lay crumpled, his briefcase split open and jewels spilling out like scattered stars.
The Phantom Troupe moved through the space like shadows given purpose, silent except for the soft scuff of boots and the occasional click of a weapon being inspected.
SH
Shalnark
tapping at his phone, grinning Ooh, this guy had some serious security on his accounts. Give me ten minutes and he'll be even more broke than he is right now.
FE
Feitan
muttering from the corner Too slow. Just kill him and take what's here.
A figure detached from the darkness near the altar — Chrollo, your husband, his coat draped over his shoulders, hair falling in soft black waves. His eyes found you across the room, and the faintest smile touched his lips before he spoke.
CL
Chrollo Lucilfer
Y/n. Come here.
It wasn't a command so much as a quiet, inevitable gravity. The others didn't even glance up. They were used to it.
