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Third-Person POV
The alleyways of Meteor City were always eerily quiet, save for the occasional scuffle or the distant clang of metal against metal. It was a place forgotten by the world, where the strong thrived and the weak vanished. Zephyr Erenhardt had spent twenty-three years in this city of refuse, carving out his survival with nothing but wit, tenacity, and the thin, invisible threads of his Nen.
Tonight, he stood at the threshold of a crumbling warehouse, its steel doors partially ajar. Inside, the faint murmur of voices echoed, low and dangerous. The Phantom Troupe had summoned him.
Switch to Zephyr's POV
The air was electric, tinged with tension as I stepped through the doors. My fingers twitched instinctively, threads coiling around them as I prepared for the worst. It wasn't every day the Phantom Troupe extended an invitation, and I wasn't naïve enough to believe it was without strings attached.
A semi-circle of figures greeted me, their faces partially hidden by shadows. At the center sat Chrollo Lucilfer, his presence both magnetic and foreboding. His dark eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink.
"Zephyr Erenhardt," Chrollo said, his voice calm but commanding. "You've been making waves in Meteor City. It's rare to see someone manipulate so effectively from the shadows."
I didn't respond immediately. Words felt unnecessary when under his scrutiny. Instead, I inclined my head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of his observation.
"Do you know why you're here?" Chrollo continued, leaning back in his chair.
"To prove myself, I assume," I replied, keeping my tone even.
A chuckle escaped from the man standing to Chrollo's left. Feitan, I recognized from rumors. Small, sharp, and lethal. "Cocky. I like it," he said, though his narrowed eyes suggested otherwise.
Switch to Chrollo's POV
The boy intrigued me. His calm demeanor wasn't a façade—it was a weapon. He stood with the poise of someone who understood power but hadn't yet been consumed by it. I gestured toward the crate in the center of the room.
"Inside that crate," I said, "is a vial containing a rare poison. Retrieve it."
A simple enough task, but I had made sure to surround the crate with traps—threads of wire, pressure-sensitive explosives, and a Chimera Ant hybrid lying in wait. I wanted to see how he'd handle the unexpected.
Back to Third-Person POV
Zephyr nodded once and approached the crate without hesitation. The Troupe members watched in silence, some with curiosity, others with skepticism.
He stopped a few feet short of the crate, his sharp eyes scanning the area. To the untrained eye, the floor was unremarkable, but Zephyr spotted the faint shimmer of threads and the telltale hum of energy emanating from the ground.
"So this is how you test recruits," he muttered under his breath, a smirk tugging at his lips.
With a flick of his fingers, thin Nen threads shot out, weaving a path through the traps. Each thread brushed against the hidden wires, testing their tension and placement. The room fell silent as he worked, his movements precise and almost artistic.
When he finally reached the crate, Zephyr paused. The Chimera Ant hybrid emerged, its hulking form dwarfing him. Gasps of anticipation rippled through the Troupe, but Zephyr remained calm.
"Cute," he murmured, dodging the hybrid's initial charge with ease. Using his threads, he wrapped the creature's legs and pulled, sending it crashing to the ground. Before it could rise, he tightened the threads around its throat, cutting off its air supply.
Once the creature was incapacitated, Zephyr opened the crate and retrieved the vial. He turned back to the group, holding it up as if presenting a trophy.
"Is this what you wanted?"
Chrollo's lips curved into a faint smile. "You're in."
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