chrolloswrld

[chrolloswrld]

BAITED DEBATES , chrollo lucilfer

authors note. this is inspired by something @ddarker-dreams said about chrollo giving insane hot takes just because he loves to debate with reader. i thought the concept was great and wanted to write about it. ignore the title, this is my first post and i couldn’t think of anything remotely creative

warnings. implied kidnapping, references to murder, yandere chrollo?? idk he’s a good a man savanah!!!

wc. 1.1k

THE TELEVISION HAD been murmuring in the background for a quite a while now, a steady intrusion against the sterile quiet of the penthouse’s white concrete interior. The noise was constant but idle, like an insect tapping against glass. It chipped away at the silence that had settled across the gold-veined marble floor—silence that felt less like peace and something more similar to mold. One no amount of diluted bleach or thieved luxury could cleanse.

Book in hand, you’d long since stopped paying attention to whatever the flatscreen was spewing. Well, ever since the news segment had started. The screen had started whispering names you sourly recognized. Names Chrollo had unforgivingly erased.

Chrollo’s victims didn’t stay gone—not really. They resurfaced on the news ticker, in black-and-white photos, in interviews with the families left behind. The television, in all its flickering dullness, had become a confessional. Sometimes it felt like it was absolving you—just a little—by reminding you hadn’t pulled the trigger. You’d just stood nearby and let the gun fire.

And speaking of killers—

Chrollo sat across the room, legs tucked beneath him like a monk in prayer, except monks didn’t shamelessly read over their victim’s shoulder or wear silk robes bought from dead men’s riches. He read without apology, eyes snapping between the lines with a speed and precision that made you read faster. In all honesty, he was probably ten pages ahead.

“You dog-ear your pages,” Chrollo observed casually, treating your everyday actions like you were a never-before-seen specimen. Funnily enough, he sounded slightly peeved. You could see him as one of those people who thought bending in pages was a crime against all books. Maybe it should’ve scared you. He’d probably slit throats for less.

Then the news anchor’s voice sharpened, gaining weight. Not emotion exactly—just the strain of someone trying not to show it. You reached for the remote, ready to change the channel, maybe turn the television off completely. And save yourself the emotion turmoil that was brought upon seeing the victims names and faces

Instead, when the screen cut to footage of a man walking through prison gates, you turned the volume up.

The older man squinted against the sun like it was an alien force, blinking into a world that had moved on without him. Bold words took over the screen:

[ WRONGFULLY CONVICTED

DEATH ROW ]

The anchor spoke: “Leon Fitz spent nearly fifteen years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit. Today, newly uncovered DNA evidence proved his innocence, leading to his release.” The image shifted—his photo, broadcast again. Eyes worn down by time, a life stolen. 

You frowned, not out of pity, but out of anger. Frustration. Even understanding, though you knew better than to equate gilded captivity with iron walls. Still, both were cages. Just different brands.

“That’s so stupid. They need to get rid of the death penalty.” You muttered, to no one in particular, but regret stewed in your gut when he turned.

Chrollo moved with the slow grace of someone who’d been waiting for an opening. Like a predator picking up the scent of something interesting.

“Why is that?” he asked, too casually. The question was innocent enough, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. He wasn’t curious. He was entertained.

You glared at him. “Because an innocent man almost died. That’s reason enough.”

“But he didn’t die,” Chrollo said, leaning his cheek into his palm. “So the system worked, didn’t it?”

You sighed. “Are you really going to play devil’s advocate on this?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “I’ve worn worse titles.”

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

You set down the book; you’ll find out the cliffhanger tomorrow. “Do you have any idea how many people get wrongly convicted? And not all of them get lucky like this guy. Some do die. There is no room for error when the punishment is death.”

Chrollo drummed his fingers on the velvet armrest. “And what about people like me? The ones who aren’t innocent. Surely you’d rather see me executed than fed three meals a day in a comfortable prison?”

You stared at him. “This isn’t about you.”

“No?” He smiled faintly. “You’ve wished me dead before.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m not the state. I don’t get to decide who lives and dies—and I shouldn’t.”

Chrollo tilted his head. “But someone has to. That’s what justice is, isn’t it? People making choices. Judgments. Consequences. Collateral.”

“Satisfaction is not justice,” you snapped. “You want revenge? Fine. But don’t package it as morality. If you kill someone and call it ‘justice,’ that makes you… well, you.”

He gave an exaggerated wince. “Ouch.”

You ignored him. “Besides, human lives shouldn’t be deemed as collateral. If we have the option to avoid it, we should. And putting life-and-death decisions into the hands of imperfect people? Elected officials and emotionally charged juries? It’s corrupt by design.”

Chrollo considered that for a moment, “What about closure for the victims’ families?”

You narrowed your eyes. “As if you care about victims.”

“I don’t,” he agreed easily. His lack of hesitation sickened you. “But that doesn’t make the question invalid.”

“Maybe it brings relief,” you conceded, “but is that relief worth executing someone who didn’t do it? Because it happens. More than it should. And the fact that we accept that risk? That we normalize it? That’s barbaric.”

“Then what about deterrence?” he asked smoothly, without missing a beat. “Doesn’t the death penalty stop future crimes?”

“There’s no evidence to back that. Most killings are emotional, impulsive. People don’t stop mid-homicide and think, ‘Wait—what are the sentencing guidelines in this state?’”

“I do,” Chrollo argued.

You gave him an unimpressed look. Chrollo leaned back, watching you with open amusement.

Then he laughed—a soft, delighted sound. That to you, sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “You’re so passionate when you argue. Your devotion to your ideals is downright charming.”

You rolled your eyes and ignored the compliment. “So you agree with me. Half your points were hypocritical,”

“Hmm,” he murmured, dodging the question. He leaned forward, voice low and intimate in way that was unnerving. “I just like watching you fight for something. It’s… refreshing.”

You didn’t reply. Partly because you were tired of debating, and partly because that look in his eyes—the one that mixed mischief and composure—always left you with the sense that he already knew how this argument ended.

Then, with a slow, almost affectionate motion, Chrollo reached out and tugged you closer, one hand curling around your wrist as he rose to meet your gaze.

“Let’s save this for tomorrow,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’d hate to waste a good debate when we’ve got all the time in the world.”

And just like that, the conversation ended. Not with a conclusion. But with control, hidden beneath a velvet smile.

“Whatever.”