An abandoned building.
The fire crackled.
The flickering firelight carved light and shadow across everyone's faces.
Chrollo sat on a mostly intact stone slab.
He opened the book he had stolen.
A pen appeared out of thin air in his right hand.
"Name, birthday, blood type. Write them all down."
Chrollo spoke.
"I'll write a prophetic verse for each of you."
None of the Phantom Troupe members spoke.
Most of them didn't believe in things like fate.
They believed only in themselves and their companions.
But this was their leader's order.
Nobunaga was the first to hand over a scrap of paper with his information on it.
Chrollo took the slip.
He closed his eyes.
The pen danced across the page on its own.
A few minutes later, a four-line poem appeared.
"The precious month of frost shall lose half its number."
"You will enjoy time alone together in a room with no one else."
"Someone will steal several pages from your calendar."
"A phone call you must never answer."
Nobunaga stared at those lines.
What month of frost? What calendar?
Utter bullshit.
"Next."
Chrollo offered no explanation.
He wrote a prophecy for every member present.
When Shalnark's turn came, the poem made his expression change.
"Never make a phone call, for when you need it most, it will not connect."
"Nor should you answer, for of three calls, one will come from the Grim Reaper."
Shalnark gripped the paper and remained silent for a long time.
Everyone had their fortune told.
Chrollo closed the book.
"How did it go?"
Phinks sounded impatient.
Chrollo stood and walked to the shattered window.
He looked out at the distant city lights.
"Not very well."
For the first time, his voice carried weight.
"The prophecies say..."
"Next week, half the Spider will die."