MothWorks

Masterlist

ANTHOLOGY SERIES:

Opposites Attract (Warlord x Watcher Reader) - ongoing...

SUMMARY: Though the Government granted them their positions, they still doubted the Seven Warlords’ intentions, fearing hidden agendas that might turn against them. To keep them in check, the Government assigned a Watcher to each Warlord under the guise of cooperation, but truly to observe their every move.

Subject: Dracule Mihawk - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

Subject: Crocodile - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

Subject: Donquixote Doflamingo - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

Subject: Boa Hancock - Part 1, Part 2.

Subject: Blackbeard - Part 1, Part 2.

Subject: Jinbe - Part 1.

Subject: Buggy - Part 1.

Subject: Gecko Moria - Part 1.

Subject: Weevil - Part 1.

Subject: Bartholomew Kuma - Part 1.

Quarrels (Warlord x Warlord Reader) - coming soon...

SUMMARY: Being a Warlord brought countless benefits, most importantly, peace. Free from marines hunting you across the seas, you could finally sail without disturbance. Peculiar for a pirate, yet it wasn’t chaos you sought. But what happens when that hard-earned peace is shattered, not by the law, but by a fellow Warlord?

ONESHOT COLLECTION:

Hanahaki Disease ( One Piece Characters x Reader; May Request. ) - coming soon...

SUMMARY: Love is such a fickle thing. What happens when you fall for someone who could never feel the same, someone out of reach, out of your league? Curse your heart, for it aches all the same, until it blooms from your throat, coughing petals in their name.

Jealousy ( One Piece Characters x Reader; May Request. )- coming soon..

SUMMARY: Jealousy is a dangerous when it lives in the heart of someone who doesn’t even know how they feel. What happens when they watch you laugh, tease, or get close to others, while you remain completely oblivious? Glances burn, words stumble, and a quiet longing simmers felt, but never spoken.

One Piece Characters:

Donquixote Doflamingo

The Quiet After The Storm (Doflamingo x AFAB! UnderworldReader)

Dracule Mihawk

Opposites Attract ( Warlord Mihawk x Watcher Reader ) - ongoing... Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

Between The Sun And Moon

Comradeship ( Young Mihawk x AFAB! PirateReader ) - coming soon...

Figarland Shamrock

Peculiarity Amongst Idiocy (Young Shamrock x Noble Reader) - ongoing... Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Red-haired Shanks

Free As The Sea - ( Shanks x AFAB! Wife Reader )

Between The Sun And Moon

Mihawk had always kept sentiment at arm’s length. It was easier that way, cleaner, more efficient, less messy. Whatever he shared with Shanks, he never allowed it to be called friendship.

Rivalry was what he accepted. What he clung to. What he understood.

And yet the world insisted on calling it something softer, something warmer. They saw meaning in their clashes, devotion in their duels, and affection in the way they always found their way back to each other’s company.

If asked, Mihawk would neither deny nor confirm it. Let people assume what they wished; it made no difference to him.

But there was one truth he could not so easily dismiss.

You.

Your existence challenged every carefully maintained wall he’d built around his heart.

You were not his lover. You weren’t even his partner. Yet you occupied a space so close to both that he sometimes felt his composure slip when he thought of you.

It was uncharacteristic of him. Irritatingly so.

So he didn’t think about it. Not deeply. Not deliberately. He simply...watched. From a distance. From the corner of a quiet deck or the far end of a dim tavern. Always near enough to see you, never close enough to be seen.

Even now.

You had come to the Red-Hair’s ship again, a routine visit, one you likely didn’t think twice about. Mihawk had arrived earlier, sharing a drink with Shanks only because he no longer had reason to duel a man missing an arm.

“ Didn't expect you to stay this long, ” Shanks said, swirling his sake cup lazily. His single hand moved with practiced ease, as if he’d always meant to have only one. “ You usually leave the moment the bottle opens. ”

Mihawk scoffed. “ Your hospitality is tolerable. Barely. ”

Shanks grinned. “ That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve ever given me. ”

Before Mihawk could reply, footsteps approached..light, familiar, achingly so. You came into view, smiling as the sea wind tugged playfully at your hair.

“ Mihawk, ” you greeted, eyes curving warmly. “ I didn’t know you’d be here today. ”

He inclined his head, voice smooth. “ I came on a whim. ”

“ A flimsy reason for a man like you, ” Shanks teased. “ Maybe they’re the real reason. ”

You rolled your eyes. “ Don’t make things weird, Shanks. ”

But Mihawk felt it then a small, unwelcome twist in his chest when you nudged the red-haired emperor with easy affection, and Shanks let out a soft, genuine laugh.

He hated how well the two of you fit.

He hated that he noticed.

As the sun lowered toward the horizon, the three of you shared a quiet meal on deck. Shanks told stories; you listened, eyes bright with amusement and Mihawk sat, silent, taking in every flicker of emotion on your face.

At one point, Shanks lifted his mug and nudged it toward you. “ Come on, drink with me. It’s been too long. ”

You smiled, that smile, the one that softened your features and made your eyes shimmer with something unguarded. “ Only if you don’t try to get me drunk again. ”

“ I would never, ” he said, feigning innocence.

Mihawk watched the exchange, jaw tightening just slightly, the barest shift, but enough for him to notice.

And you noticed too.

“ Mihawk? ” you asked, leaning forward. “ You’re awfully quiet today. ”

“ I’m always quiet, ” he replied.

“ Yes, but you’re… quieter. ”

Shanks raised a brow, shooting Mihawk a playful look. “ Our dear hawk’s in a mood. ”

Mihawk shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. Shanks only laughed.

“ You may rest assured, ” Mihawk said, voice cool, “ that your mood has no bearing on mine. ”

“ Mine? ” Shanks blinked. “ Why would 𝘐 be the reason? ”

Mihawk’s gaze flicked briefly, uncontrollably, toward you.

Only a second. But Shanks saw it. Of course he did.

The emperor’s smile faded into something more contemplative.

<>

Later, as the night deepened and Shanks excused himself to fetch another bottle, you remained with Mihawk at the railing, watching moonlight ripple atop the water.

“ You seem troubled, ” you said softly.

“ I am not. ”

“ You don’t hide irritation well. ”

He turned his gaze toward you, sharp gold eyes unreadable. “ Irritation suggests a lack of control. ”

“ And you’re saying you don’t lack it? ”

He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment.

You didn’t look away. That alone stirred something painfully warm inside him.

“ No, ” he said at last. “ I do not. ”

You hummed, unconvinced, then looked back out to the sea. “ Shanks mentioned you haven’t been visiting much lately. I thought maybe you were avoiding him. ”

“ I avoid no one. ”

“ Then why so distant? ”

He almost told you. A fraction of a second from admitting everything. That he didn’t like the way you lit up for Shanks. Didn’t like the way the emperor looked at you, either. Didn’t like feeling…less.

But he swallowed it.

“ Some distances, ” he said quietly, “ are easier to maintain. ”

You turned, confused but before you could ask, Shanks reappeared, slinging an arm around your shoulders with easy warmth.

“ Alright! One more round, hey, you look serious. Everything okay? ”

Your expression softened immediately. “ Yeah. We were just talking. ”

Mihawk felt it again, that brightness you only seemed to have when Shanks was near. The warmth. The ease.

You were the sea under moonlight with him.

But with Shanks? You were sunlight on open water; radiant, alive, boundless.

He could only stare at you for a moment, unseen, wanting what he believed he had no right to want.

He yearned for you silently, enduringly but in the end, he knew.....

You would always shine brighter when standing beside the sun.

And he…he had only ever been the moon.

When Shanks first met you, he recognized something immediately, that fire in your eyes.

A flame he recognized, because he carried the same one.

Restless. Searching. Refusing to stop, because the sea never did.

He laughed when you first spoke to him, bold and bright, as if the world wasn’t big enough to contain your energy.

“ You remind me of a storm, ” he’d told you back then.

And you had grinned. “ Then brace yourself, Red-Hair. ”

That was the moment he knew he was done for.

You were like the sea, dangerous, welcoming, and boundless. No one owned you.

Least of all him.

But he fell anyway. Hopelessly.

He loved you for your freedom. He loved you because you were wild. And he knew that confessing any of it would be the same as trying to tie a rope around the ocean.

“ You’d hate me if I ever tried to keep you, ” he admitted once, only half-joking.

You blinked. “ Why would you? ”

He smiled gently, “ Because you’re meant to roam. ”

He let the feeling sit in his chest like an anchor..heavy, unmoving, rarely acknowledged.

But then came Mihawk.

Shanks remembers the moment perfectly: you stepping onto the deck, spotting the world’s greatest swordsman for the first time. He saw the shift instantly.

Your steps slowed. Your voice, once too loud, quieted to a steady calm.

Shanks watched with a sinking heart as your gaze lingered on Mihawk just a moment too long.

“ Oh? ” Shanks teased lightly, leaning toward you. “ Gone quiet, have we? ”

You shot him a glare, cheeks warming. “ Shut up. ”

Mihawk only raised a brow, his golden eyes flicking your way. “ Did I say something? ”

“ No, ” you blurted too quickly. “ No, nothing. ”

And Shanks had to laugh because you, who never backed down from an emperor, were tripping over your own heartbeat in front of Mihawk.

Later, as the three of you shared drinks, Shanks watched you closely. The difference was stark.

With him, you were a flame; crackling, unpredictable, wild.

“ Oi, you’re going to spill that if you keep waving it around, ” he chuckled, nudging your cup.

“ With you around? Probably, ” you grinned.

With Mihawk, though you quieted. Steadied. “ Careful, ” Mihawk murmured when you leaned too close to the railing. His hand brushed your elbow gently, guiding you back.

You swallowed, too visibly. “ Oh. Right. Thanks. ”

Shanks felt something coil tight in his chest.

He was the sun bright, warm, impossible to ignore. People were drawn to him, always had been.

But Mihawk…Mihawk was the moon. Silent. Steady.

A presence that stayed even through the darkest nights.

And Shanks knew, painfully, that sometimes the sea shimmered brighter under moonlight than under the scorching sun.

<>

One evening, after you walked below deck, Shanks leaned on the railing beside Mihawk, sake in hand.

“ So, ” Shanks hummed, eyes on the horizon, “ you noticed, didn’t you? ”

Mihawk’s voice was low, measured. “ Noticed what? ”

Shanks smirked. “ Them. ”

A pause. “ Yes. ”

Shanks let out a slow breath, smile fading. “ Figures. You always notice everything. ”

Mihawk didn’t respond, but the silence spoke enough.

Shanks continued, voice softer than usual. “ They shine differently with you. ”

Mihawk’s eye twitched faintly. “ Differently? ”

“ Mm. ” Shanks nodded. “ I brighten them, push them to burn. But you… ” He exhaled. “ You calm them. Like the moon pulling the tides. ”

Mihawk glanced at him but said nothing.

Shanks’ smile turned bittersweet. “ Between the two of us, I’m the sun. You’re the moon. And they… ” He swallowed. “ They’ve always belonged to the sea. ”

Mihawk looked away, jaw set. “ Then neither of us can claim them. ”

“ Yeah, ” Shanks murmured, staring into the dark waves. “ I know. ”

He loved you. He loved Mihawk too, in his own strange way. And he didn’t know which of you he feared losing more.

When you returned to the deck moments later, laughing about something below, Shanks straightened, smile slipping easily back into place.

But inside, he felt it again. The ache. the fear. the truth.

You were his sea.

But you were never his.

In the Holy Land, beneath the blinding radiance of the Great One, there existed a family who did not shine, they reflected. Their name was spoken rarely, carried on whispered breaths that trembled between reverence and fear.

The Satchels.

They were enforcers, the silent architects of divine law. Where the Figarlands stood tall, claiming glory and favor, basking in the worship of the heavens, the Satchels knelt beside them, quiet, disciplined, unwavering. The Figarlands drew attention, the Satchels drew respect. 

Their mark was unmistakable, a pair of pale, curved horns, rising from their heads with the elegance of polished ivory. Not monstrous, not ornamental but sacred. To see them was to glimpse divinity carved into flesh. They were not symbols of power.

They were power itself.

And you bore them.

You, child of the Satchels, were destined for the highest order of servitude: a Knight of God. This decree had been written before your first cry, before your eyes opened to the gilded ceilings of your cradle. You would rise. You would serve. You would surpass. Where the Figarlands dazzled with outward brilliance, you would embody measured, unyielding force. Your path had been etched into the Book of Heaven before you even understood the meaning of freedom.

Your father had seen to that.

Saint Stinger Satchel was a man of iron and violet, a soldier of perfection forged in failure. His soul carried an old wound, one older than you, older even than your name. His sister, your aunt Maffey, had once served under Figarland Garling himself, tasked with an errand of divine consequence: to retrieve both of his sons, the twin heirs of a god.

But fate, or folly, intervened.

She returned with only one.

The second was lost to the sea. For that single, unforgivable mistake, she was executed upon arrival, swift, ceremonial, absolute.

Your father had accepted her death as duty, but the humiliation festered. It was not grief that burned within him, but insult. The Satchels, those who had once enforced the will of heaven itself, were fallible. Their blood could err.

From that humiliation, your inheritance was born.

You were raised not to avenge your aunt, but to surpass the family that condemned her. You would outshine the Figarlands. Outlearn them, outfight them, outlive them. You would bring the son of Figarland Garling to his knees and in doing so, erase the shame carved into your father’s name.

“ Make him kneel, ” your father had said once, his voice low and unyielding, “ and let him remember that the Satchels are never forgotten. ”

It was never truly about service to heaven.

It was about pride, the kind that calls itself duty, the kind that wears faith like armor.

Your childhood was a crucible.

Each dawn broke before the first light dared touch the golden spires of Mariejois. You trained until the marble floors gleamed with your sweat, until the silver mirrors reflected not a child, but an instrument of divine precision. Every motion, every tilt of the chin, the arc of a bow, the subtle grip of a spoon was measured, corrected, refined. Nothing was trivial. Everything was survival.

When your hands trembled from exhaustion, you were told trembling was weakness. When your body screamed in pain, you were told pain was imperfection. When tears threatened to fall, you were told emotion was unbecoming of a Knight of God.

And always, always, there was the name.

Figarland Shamrock.

You had never met him, yet his shadow haunted every lesson, every punishment, every correction. His presence was carved into the air you breathed, into the weight of your failures, into the fear in your own reflection.

“ Why do your hands falter while his are steady? ” “ Why does your posture waver when his stands unyielding? ” “ Why must every one of your efforts fall short of him? ”

It did not matter that you were your own person. It did not matter that you gave everything you had. Nothing was enough. Shamrock became a ghost stitched into your childhood, a phantom rival embedded in every scar, every reprimand, every lesson learned too late.

You came to hate that name. Not the boy himself, he was distant, untouchable but the ideal he represented: flawless, unblemished, divine.

You hated him.

You hated your father, who wielded his comparisons like a whip.

You hated the world that called your suffering sanctity, that draped pain in the robes of duty.

Almost everything.

Except for one thing.

Books.

Knowledge was your only escape, the single indulgence that no tutor could punish. Histories, theories, stories, the worlds within them were far greater than the suffocating halls of Mariejois. Within those pages, you could breathe. You could exist without expectation, without perfection, without the constant echo of your father’s voice reminding you to stand straighter, speak clearer, smile less.

So when the time came to attend the Akademiya, you did not go to please your father, you went to bury yourself in its archives. You went to drown your inheritance beneath words, to smother the weight of your blood with knowledge.

And yet, the moment you entered its ivory halls, you saw everything you despised.

The same rot that lingered in the Holy Land ran rampant here. The children of gods, your so-called peers lounged in luxury, laughing too loudly, speaking too freely. They mocked the tutors, abused the servants, and wore their divinity like perfume. You had expected arrogance, but not such idiocy.

And, shamefully, you envied them.

To be so careless, so free of consequence. To drop a spoon and not fear a blow. To speak out of turn and not earn correction. Once, in your exhaustion, you had used the wrong utensil at a meal, a demitasse spoon instead of a bouillon. You had been made to recite the hierarchy of cutlery for hours, until you could name each in order of size, purpose, and ceremonial use.

Your mind had simply been tired. Your hand had reached for what was nearest. That was all.

You had not eaten since dawn.

And yet, your father’s wrath had been unadulterated.

So yes, when you saw your classmates laugh as they hurled spoons across tables, you felt envy. Bitter, poisonous envy.

But you also felt disgust.

“ Jealousy of fools makes one a fool, ” you murmured to yourself one day. “ And I have no desire to join their ranks. ”

You withdrew. You avoided their noise, their laughter, their careless cruelty.

And one afternoon, you found it. A safe space.

A door half-hidden behind an archway. Dust upon its frame, age upon its hinges. When you pushed it open, the scent of old paper and silence greeted you like an embrace.

The library.

Once ancient and forgotten, its shelves bowed under the weight of centuries, draped in shadows and cobwebs, thick with the musk of decayed parchment. But you made it yours.

With each sweep of your cloth, each careful adjustment of a leaning tome, a quiet rhythm settled over you. The dust that had long clung to forgotten corners lifted like a weight from your shoulders, and the library seemed to exhale with every polished surface. The brass candle holders gleamed under your touch, scattering warm light across the wooden floors, and shadows retreated slowly, obedient to your hands. For the first time in a long while, your mind felt as orderly and serene as the space you shaped with care.

The scent of wax and polished wood replaced the staleness of dust, and the faint aroma of ink and parchment old, venerable, alive filled the air. Your movements were meditative; the library became a mirror of yourself, a reflection of control and order in a life otherwise dictated by impossibly high expectations.

Here, among these restored shelves, you discovered freedom. Each book returned to its proper place, each candle relit, each layer of dust removed was a small victory, a space shaped entirely by your hands and your will. No tutor’s sharp voice, no father’s glare, no phantom of Shamrock could intrude here.

In that sanctuary of silence, among words that had outlived gods, you could finally exist. Not as a Satchel. Not as a soldier. Not as an instrument of perfection honed to serve the heavens. Not as a shadow measured against Figarland Shamrock.

Simply as yourself.

And yet, as the last shelves were straightened and the final candles flickered to life, you realized this was no longer merely a refuge. The library had become a crucible of a different kind: a place where the raw materials of your mind were tempered into something stronger than obedience, stronger than fear. Here, in the hush of polished wood and ordered tomes, the Satchel blood in your veins did not simply reflect the light of the Great One, it began to gather its own.

Then that peace was ruined.

The library doors groaned, a deep, resonant sound that carried through the sunlit hallways. You didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. Probably another peer, some insufferable, loud, restless child eager to crash through your sanctuary. Your hands moved automatically over the spines of the leather-bound volumes, correcting a lean here, rotating a book there. That mattered far more than any intruder. Still, a faint irritation coiled in your chest, sharp and unpleasant. How dare anyone disturb this silence, this order?

A shadow passed across the aisle, deliberate, measured. A boy. Tall, his steps precise, almost cautious, like he feared waking the dust itself. You allowed the smallest twitch of annoyance, not curiosity, not even interest, just irritation at an unwanted presence. The library was sacred, a temple of centuries-old knowledge. Outsiders had no place here.

He muttered something under his breath. You ignored it. There was a faint clink as he settled at a table, careful, deliberate, maintaining some invisible boundary. Good. Distance. He was out of the immediate area of influence. The library could remain yours for now.

Then you noticed the book in his hands. Mariejois Codex: Laws, Authority, and the Forbidden Secrets. Leather cracked with age, faintly scented with wax and secrecy. Just the ordinary mention of the title would make lesser intruders tremble, but not you. Not now. You didn’t glance at him, didn’t let him occupy your attention beyond the faint awareness of his presence. And yet he looked at you.

The weight of his gaze pressed against your back like a physical thing. Cold. Expectant. Intrusive. You clenched your jaw, forcing your irritation into a tight, controlled calm. He would not know the measure of you, not yet. Your hands moved across the row of books with deliberate care, adjusting, straightening, cataloging. One by one, each tome returned to its proper place, and still, you did not look at him.

“ Excuse me, ” you said, your voice soft, precise, yet sharp enough to cut the silence like a scalpel. Formal. Every syllable measured.

Your fingers froze mid-motion, suspended over the leather spines as though even the smallest tremor might betray your awareness. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. You already knew he was there. His presence pressed against the edges of your carefully constructed world, an intrusion into the sacred order you had claimed.

“ The book you hold, does it address the laws within Mariejois? ”

Your chest tightened, a spark of challenge igniting behind your ribs. Surprise? That fleeting flicker across his face made the corners of your mouth lift in the barest, almost imperceptible smile. He expected ignorance. Expected fear, awe, deference. He did not expect knowledge.

“ I am aware, ” you said finally, your voice sliding into the hush of the library like a drawn blade, calm, and sharp. “ That the Celestial Dragons exist above the law, yet still tolerate prohibited practices, including slavery. The D’s are regarded as the gravest threat to justice, and communities that harbor them are liable. Revealing the existence of Imu is punishable by execution, except for the Five Elders and the Knights of God. And so…I would like to borrow the book. ”

You did not ask. You demanded. Why should you? You were not ordinary. You were a satchel. A lineage of the Knights of God. A name etched into authority and fear. No Celestial Dragon would dare deny you, not even him.

A sharp intake of breath. The faint scrape of movement. His surprise was tangible, almost delicious. Good. Let him feel it. Let him know this space was yours, and he was merely a shadow passing through it. You returned to your task, fingers brushing spines, cataloging, restoring order, each movement a shield around the black coil of contempt tightening in your chest.

He asked your family name. You did not look up. Chin tilted, the slightest challenge in posture alone. “ If you wish to know my name, ” you said, voice smooth, unyielding, “ it is proper etiquette to offer yours first. ”

For a heartbeat, doubt pricked at the edges of your mind, perhaps he was no ordinary Celestial. Perhaps. But pride demanded that you show nothing. He would extract nothing from you. Nothing.

“ Figarland Shamrock, ” he said.

Hate erupted, suffocating, thick, a living, writhing thing curling through your chest. Figarland. The name you had been measured against your entire life. The standard of arrogance, entitlement, privilege. And here he was, in your sanctuary. Figarland Red Hair, long and carefully braided to the side, polished and deliberate, the very embodiment of everything that had gnawed at your existence for years.

The library, your refuge, suddenly felt smaller, heavier. Every nerve screamed to vanish, to strike, to purge the irritation pressing against your skin. But fury, raw and searing, demanded control. You had power here. Knowledge. Order. And yet, the hatred coiled, thick and molten, burning hotter the longer he lingered, whispering that every breath he drew was an affront.

You offered a shallow bow, enough to suggest manners without surrendering control, without acknowledging recognition, without granting him even the smallest advantage. “ Ah. My apologies, ” you murmured, each word laced with deliberate disdain, tight as a drawn bowstring. “ Forget I ever spoke with you. Forgive me for wasting your time. ”

You slipped between the shelves, the shafts of sunlight glancing off your back as you moved. Every spine you passed, every volume you left behind, felt like a wall, a barrier, a bulwark against him, against intrusion, against the searing, suffocating hatred you carried like a hidden weight. Behind you, the library’s air seemed to contract, thick with questions unasked, secrets untested, but you did not look back.

The pulse of loathing hammered in your chest, sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore. He did not know. Could not know. And you would not meet him again. One encounter had been enough, a spark of searing contempt, a taste of the loathing you would carry far longer than any memory of his face.

But fate, cruel, had other plans.

The next day, you arrived at the library fully expecting peace, quiet, and zero Figarland Shamrocks. You were wrong. Of course, you were wrong.

He was there.

Sitting in the exact same spot as yesterday, braid glinting in the candlelight that barely caught the rich red of his hair, posture so rigid it might have been carved from marble. You froze at the entrance, scanning for excuses, for escape routes, for a sudden collapse of the very walls of the library that might swallow him whole. No luck. You shuffled past, pretending to inspect the floor tile though, in truth, you’d already counted every one of them twice yesterday and still found them disturbingly normal.

The following day, you made a decision of paramount importance: you would avoid him.

You would avoid the library entirely. If he could not find you amidst the corridors, alcoves, and courtyards of the estate, perhaps you could reclaim a shred of sanity. You took your books outside, into the sunlight of the cloisters. The breeze whispered through the stone arches, and for the first few hours, you dared to believe you had won. You read. You turned pages. You inhaled the scent of parchment and warm stone and felt free.

It lasted, naturally.....for only a few days.

And then, as if summoned by some capricious deity with an unaccountable sense of humor, he appeared. Leaning against the fountain in the center of the courtyard, reading something so large and ornate it seemed meant for a king. Long red hair catching the sun just so, as though it had been polished by angels for display.

Your stomach sank.

You blinked. “ Impossible, ” you muttered, backing away from the courtyard.

This time, you chose to station yourself near the teacher's lounge, where the scent of the room assaulted the senses: stale oil lamps, dust, and the faint, unmistakable odor of servants and slaves moving tirelessly to maintain the Akademiya. You wrinkled your nose. How anyone could bear to live in such filth voluntarily or worse, to teach in it was beyond comprehension. The stench clung to the air like a badge of misery, and you wondered, not for the first time, why anyone would select such a place for the exercise of knowledge.

But, and this was the smallest consolation, it was still better than being among your fellow Celestial Dragons, whose every gesture and word reeked of arrogance and stupidity, as if the entire world existed solely to highlight their brilliance. Here, at least, you had peace. You could read, study, and pretend, barely, that the slaves bustling about were not horrifically tiresome, or at least that their incessant, muddled chatter would not reach your perfectly ordered mind. You tolerated the smell, the scurrying forms, the low murmurs of servitude. You could stand it for now.

And yet, even here, you felt the inevitable.

Because over the next few days, the truth became undeniable. He followed you.

At first, it was subtle. A shift of movement in the corridor, a shadow passing along the tapestries at the edge of your vision. A sudden scrape of a chair behind you as a tutor moved about, only for you to look and find nothing. You turned again, still nothing. And then, inevitably, there he was. Five feet away, standing, reading a book, pretending to be exactly as inconspicuous as a person whose every action declared, I am here. You cannot escape me.

You began constructing increasingly elaborate theories. Perhaps he had mastered some secret branch of arcane surveillance. Perhaps he had enlisted the monks and servants, pigeons and rats alike, to report your location. Perhaps, heavens forgive you, a mysterious force had bound him to your very shadow, such that wherever you turned, there he would be.

One morning, you entered the hall of archives, hoping, praying, that perhaps he had finally left. You breathed in the familiar scent of old vellum, leather, and dust, and dared to believe. You selected a tome, opened it carefully, and began to read, letting the words of long-dead scholars soothe the tension in your shoulders. And then, from the corner of your eye, the unthinkable: movement. You froze. Slowly you turned and there he was.

Figarland Shamrock. Silent. Patient. Perfect.

You slammed the nearest folio to the table, sending a cloud of ancient dust swirling like a miniature storm above the cracked marble floors. Your chest heaved as your eyes locked on him, standing by the far window, braid gleaming with infuriating precision, book of unknown and certainly irrelevant contents in his hands.

“ By the quills of a thousand scribes! By the chains of every unfortunate apprentice who ever dared to transcribe the annals of my ancestors! ” you bellowed, pacing furiously along the aisles of towering law tomes. “ Figarland! By what infernal trick of fate, by what ungodly pact with every marble statue in this cursed library, do you continue to infest my sanctuary? Speak, wraith, speak, or may every candle flame here twist to smoke and suffocate your infernal calm! ”

A feathered dust mote fell onto the edge of your manuscript as if mocking your outrage. You swatted at it, nearly toppling a stack of codices dedicated to the arcane laws of taxation. “ Do you feed upon my frustration, sir? ” you demanded, voice rising to a pitch capable of rattling the heavy oak doors. “ Do you derive some abhorrent sustenance from my irritation, like a carrion crow upon the bones of my sanity? ”

He did not answer. He merely lifted the book ever so slightly, as though measuring the volume of your despair.

“ No, I will not..! Cannot accept this! ” you shrieked, spinning to the spiral staircase, hoping to find respite in the upper reading room where ancient tomes of history might shield you. But, of course, when you peered down the stairs, he stood there, braid catching the sunlight as if he had bribed the very heavens to highlight his presence. You gasped, “ Impossible! By the ancestral spirits and the ink-stained fingers of every librarian who ever lived, this is impossible! I will not be subjected to this infernal shadow, this relentless, hair-clad tormentor! ”

You ran your hands through your hair, scattering more dust from the neglected corners of the shelves. “ By the bones of Saint Marcus and the patience of the monks who copied the manuscripts of Saint Saturn! By the eternal cobwebs that claim this hall! ”, you jabbed at a particularly dusty tapestry “ I curse you, Figarland Shamrock! May your braid knot in every breeze that dares to waft through these halls! May your footsteps echo endlessly until even the statues mock your arrogance! ” you huffed.

A small stack of parchment tumbled from your grip, fluttering like terrified birds. You crouched, gathering the scattered sheets, muttering curses in a combination of High Noble, Ancient Marijoan, and something that might have been an archaic dialect of your own creation. “ May your shadow trip upon itself! May your gaze be forever interrupted by the dust of a thousand neglected manuscripts! May every quill you touch snap, leaving you to scribble in agony upon bare stone! ”

And yet, despite your fury, he remained serene, standing by the window like some immovable monument to perfection. You jabbed again, nearly toppling a statue of an ancient benefactor whose gaze seemed to sneer at your impotence. “ By the ancestors whose portraits line these walls! By the ink of every manuscript you dare defile with your calm, I summon all the dust of this library, all the cobwebs that cling to the corners of every shelf, to rise and form an army against you! May the very floor tiles conspire to trip your brazen self! ”

You spun to the courtyard cloisters, hoping to find sanctuary amid the silence and the solemn statues of heroic figures, yet even there.. oh, heavens, even there.. HE appeared, braid tossing lightly, book open, smile faint, knowing. “ Unholy phantom! ” you shouted, seizing a stray candlestick. “ I will by the gods, by the fallen quills of every librarian! I will hang your perfidious self from the highest shelf and leave you dangling among the scrolls of useless knowledge! May you know the endless torment of reading nothing but missives on the price of flax and the taxation of peasants! ”

A servant, small and trembling, peeked from the shadows. “M’lady, perhaps calm- ”

“ Calm? ” you shrieked, almost hysterical, pointing dramatically at Figarland Shamrock. “ Calm? Do you see him?! Calm! He stands there, a perfect figure of torment, a monument to the cruelty of the cosmos, a braid that mocks the very concept of patience! How am I to remain calm while the universe has chosen to place him, him, exactly where I seek peace? ”

You grabbed a handful of sand from a neglected hourglass on the nearest table, flinging it toward the far window. “ May this sand..! T-this feeble grain of dust turn into a blinding tempest! May it lodge in his eyes, may it obscure his reading, may it teach him that the patience of a thousand saints cannot withstand the wrath of a noble lady denied her sanctuary! ”

By now, your voice echoed throughout the vaulted hall. The sunlight streaking through the high windows, highlighting every speck of your fury. “ May every echo of your footsteps remind you of your unworthiness! May the spirits of every scholar who ever suffered in this library haunt your dreams, whispering ‘You shall never have peace, Figarland Shamrock!’ ”

He closed his book, slowly, braid swinging like a banner of divine mischief. “ Ah, ” he said, soft, smooth, almost musical, “ I do hope you do not exhaust yourself, for your energy amuses me. ”

You collapsed dramatically against a pile of ancient tomes, panting, dust-covered, trembling with fury, muttering curses at the walls, the statues, the sun, the books themselves. “ By all that is holy and unholy, by every ancestor and every scribe who ever bent their knee to ink and parchment Figarland! I curse your serene face, your perfect posture, your infernal hair, and your constant, unyielding ability to occupy every place I set foot! May the gods themselves have mercy on your wretched, relentless existence, for I shall have none !”

And in the quiet aftermath, he merely stepped back, book in hand, braid shimmering like a banner of eternal torment, and you realized you had lost all battle with the absurdity of him.

“ Must you always curse my braid? ” he asked, tilting his head as if genuinely puzzled. “ Are you…... jealous of it? Well, it is something to envy, is it not? ”

Time slowed. You froze mid-step, hands twitching, mind whirling. Every noble principle, every shred of dignity you had clung to, threatened to combust under the weight of his perfectly coiffed audacity. Jealous? Jealous?! Of that infernal, absurdly perfect braid that somehow mocked your very existence?

Your hands curled into fists, and the impulse to scream, a full, unrestrained, cathedral-shaking scream bubbled violently at the back of your throat. Your lips trembled as every curse, every ancient insult, every indignation long rehearsed, clamored to escape at once.

But reputation. Yes, reputation. The eyes of the noble houses, the carved busts of ancestors, the silent judgment of every codex and marble statue bore down upon you. You could not, could not, allow a full display of your volcanic fury here, in this hallowed, dust-laden sanctuary.

So, with a breath that could have shattered glass, with a trembling hand brushing an imaginary speck of dust from your sleeve, you did the only thing a noble of your stature could do. You turned on your heel with a flurry of skirts and manuscripts, almost skidding over a pile of neglected scrolls, and fled.

“ Curses upon you and your infernal hair, Figarland! ” you hissed under your breath, voice low, guttural, yet dignified in its nobility. “ May the braid that mocks me forever knot itself in the winds of your arrogance! ”

He called after you, calm, amused, “ Do try to catch your composure, my lady. We wouldn’t want you to faint among the history books. ”

You did not respond. You ran, skirts flaring, manuscripts clutched like shields, dust swirling around your boots. Somewhere between the side stacks and the spiral staircases, you nearly collided with a statue of Saint Saturn. You gave it a muttered apology, it did not answer and continued, heart pounding, mind racing, dignity simultaneously intact and entirely obliterated.

Behind you, in the quiet of the library, Figarland Shamrock’s braid swayed once more in the sunlight, perfectly, infuriatingly, immovably and you knew, deep in the marrow of your very bones, that the war was far from over.

You arrived home as the carriage wheels clattered across the stone driveway, boots scuffed, skirts wrinkled, manuscript crumbs stubbornly pressed into the fabric of your sleeves. The air inside you still trembled with the memory of Figarland Shamrock, his braid, the flash of his smirk, the ease with which he had set your careful composure ablaze. The fire in your chest had not cooled. It hummed, low and insistent, a warning to anyone daring to challenge it.

The hall was empty when you approached, but your father was already there, standing in the doorway like a living monument of wrath, the doors wide and imposing behind him. His eyes cut over you, taking in every rumple, every fleck of dust, every crumb that clung to your sleeves. Not concern. Not curiosity. Pure, unrestrained judgment.

“ What is this? ” he demanded, voice low, hard, carrying across the hall like a blade. “ Do you parade yourself before your own house as though you are nothing more than a common street waif? ”

Before you could answer, his hand shot out, sharp and precise, and the resounding smack landed on your cheek. The sting flared instantly, electric, commanding every nerve into perfect awareness. Your jaw locked, hands clenching your skirts, heart hammering against your ribs.

And then she appeared, your mother, Saintess Venyn, a vision of gold and calculated beauty, her presence simultaneously comforting and terrifying. She swept toward you, hands fluttering to her pearls as if they might faint under the violence of the moment.

“ Really, darling, ” she said softly, her voice a mixture of silk and steel, “ one does not mar the canvas of youth. Not the face, not yet. Think of the bloom. The bloom must not be harmed. ”

You froze, blinking. Beauty? Her concern is for my appearance? Not my dignity, my reason, my fury? Rage coiled tighter within you, a second storm swelling to meet the first.

Your father’s glare snapped toward her. “ And YOU, always fluttering after trivialities. Composure, intellect, honor, these are the foundations of our house! And you concern yourself with petals? ”

“ Composure is meaningless if the spirit withers, ” she countered, spinning her fan with a practiced flourish. “ What is beauty if the bloom is crushed under tyranny? You would not understand, wisdom is not your domain! ”

You stood between them, rigid, burning, trapped in the absurd tension of their priorities. The servants scuttled aside, careful not to breathe too loudly, too visibly, lest they be struck as part of the fallout.

“ And you! ” your father roared, pivoting sharply back toward you. “ Allowing that shameless Figarland to provoke you! Exposing yourself to his provocations! Such undignified, unbecoming folly! I raised you to command rooms, conversations, every glance thrown your way! And yet, here you stand, chaos incarnate! ”

Your mother gasped, clutching her pearls dramatically. “ Heavens! Such a scandal! And that hair, fiery, reckless! Consider the impression it leaves on the house, on our name! ”

“ My word, ” your father snapped, “ vanity while my daughter burns with folly? You fail in guiding her, utterly! ”

“ She may bloom under scrutiny, ” she replied, fanning herself delicately. “ Pressure can crush, but delicacy, delicacy nurtures greatness. A gentle hand preserves petals for the grandest flourish. ”

“ You speak nonsense! ” he thundered. “ Discipline, rigor, precision! Not gilded platitudes! ”

“ And yet, ” she said, eyes sharp, voice dripping with sweet venom, “ you see only force, never subtlety. A bloom must be protected, or it is lost to the world! ”

You remained rigid, cheeks aflame, heart hammering. Between their absurdly exaggerated priorities, theatrical flourishes, and relentless fury, your own fire coiled tighter, sharp. This was righteous indignation, noble and deliberate, molten in its intensity.

Somewhere deep inside, a vow formed. Figarland Shamrock, the very architect of this inferno would pay. Not in rashness, not with brute vengeance, but with the careful, precise, elegant cruelty that only a daughter of your house could orchestrate. This was not merely revenge; it was strategy, a symphony of calculated fury, and every detail would fall into place as you intended.

The hall settled into a tense quiet, the servants frozen mid-step, your mother’s fan still fluttering, your father’s hands clenched at his sides. And you, cheeks burning, mind alight with indignation knew the fire would not be extinguished by their theatrics. No. It was only beginning.

The next morning, sunlight poured through the towering windows of the academy, gilding the polished stone floors in a light so brilliant it seemed almost cruel, as if the world itself conspired to mock the turmoil coiling in your chest. You moved with precision, boots whispering against the stone, skirts arranged with meticulous care. Every fold, every crease, every faint smudge had been examined and corrected. Scandal, you thought, would not be invited twice.

And yet, despite the armor of your composure, a hollow dread had settled there like a cold stone, heavy and immovable.

At the far end of the hall, the summons waited. The director’s office loomed like a fortress, its oak doors polished to a dark, almost imperious shine. You paused, hand hovering over the brass handle, inhaling a breath that tasted faintly of dust and iron. One step forward, and there would be no turning back.

The door swung open under your touch. Inside, the director sat as if carved from the very marble of authority itself. His robes were immaculate, embroidery precise, posture rigid. Even so, there was a faint, imperceptible tilt in the set of his jaw that suggested the faintest awareness of your lineage. You, of course, did not allow it to bother you.

“ Good morning, ” he said smoothly, his voice the perfect balance of civility and calculation. “ Do step in. You are late in arriving for your duties, it seems. ”

You bowed sharply, every muscle taut, every inch of your body speaking the language of discipline. “ My apologies, Director, ” you said evenly, voice stripped of customary meekness. Politeness was a weapon, and you wielded it sparingly.

He gestured to a chair, rings catching the light as he moved. “ Sit. There is a matter of some urgency we must address. ”

You obeyed, heart hammering in your chest. The desk, the high windows, the precision of the office all of it seemed designed to remind you that no matter the prestige of your house, the Akademiya’s hierarchy was absolute, unyielding.

“ You have been…restless, ” he began, fingers steepled. “ Your talents are considerable, yet so is your temperament. Temperament is difficult to manage. And yet the Akademiya has a duty to guide even those with the most spirited inclinations. ” You knew he only meant those who carry the lineages of the God Knights.

Restless. Spirited. Words wrapped in civility yet soaked in judgment. Your stomach twisted, the hollow stone in your chest shifting, heavier. You'll make him pay for it someday.

“ I understand, Director, ” you said carefully, expression neutral, though every nerve quivered beneath the surface.

He leaned forward, gaze sharp and unrelenting. “ There is a course of action you must undertake. You are to attend the advanced studies class, beginning today. ”

Your pulse stuttered. “ Advanced studies? ”

“ Indeed, ” he said, expression unreadable. “ It is the course reserved for the most… accomplished scholars. Only those capable of precise thought, rapid analysis, and control of one’s impulses may thrive there. ”

The word control struck like a hammer. You forced your posture to remain statuesque, fingers resting lightly on your lap, refusing to betray the storm threatening to rise within.

“ And the instructor? ” you asked carefully, mind alert to any nuance.

“ The class is as rigorous as it is prestigious, ” he said, smoothly. “ It will challenge you, perhaps more than you expect. But you are ready. Remember: discipline above all. Emotion has no place here. ” He almost sounded like your Father.

A shiver of anticipation, dread, and irritation coiled tighter in your chest. His tone hinted he knew, even faintly, that this would be no ordinary trial.

“ As for your colleagues, ” he continued almost casually, “ you will find a particular peer among them. One whose presence may test your focus. ”

Your stomach fell. You knew. You always knew.

“ Figarland Shamrock, ” you whispered under your breath. The name slipped like a curse into the stillness of the office, carrying the weight of every irritation, every spark of fury that had followed him into your thoughts.

The director inclined his head slightly. “ Exactly. Talented, certainly. But consider this an opportunity, an exercise in tempering your impulses. It will be enlightening. ”

You rose, knees trembling almost imperceptibly. “ Yes, Director. ”

Outside the office, you breathed, preparing yourself for the inevitable confrontation. The classroom awaited, the arena of patience and fury alike.

Figarland Shamrock would be there, braid impeccably arranged, expression serene as always, his calm a challenge in itself. And you, armored in fury, and carefully cultivated poise would face him.

The classroom smelled of polished wood, ink, and the faint, almost metallic tang of arcane chalk dust. At the far side of the room, near the brightest window, he existed, Figarland Shamrock, so impossibly still, so carefully composed, that it seemed the very air bent itself around him. The braid draped over his shoulder, hair aligned to the last strand, posture impossibly relaxed. One hand rested casually on a stack of tomes, the other draped lazily over the desk edge. Calm. Controlled. Perfect.

And you? You were everything he was not, a storm coiled in silk and skirts, a heartbeat hammering against ribs that refused to settle. Every step to your seat was measured though beneath the polished composure your nerves danced an untamed rhythm. Boots whispered across the stone, quill clutched as if it were both sword and shield. The other students didn't bother to exchange names, but your eyes had already claimed him. Figarland. Architect of every helpless irritation you had endured since the morning you first encountered him.

The teacher, a lean man with silver-streaked hair and spectacles perched precariously at the edge of his nose, a collar at his neck that betrayed his servitude, clapped his hands once. He was a slave. “ Let us begin, ” he said, voice measured, unwavering, almost. He wasn't bad. “ Advanced studies demands precision. Knowledge is not conjecture. Facts, logic, strategy, these are your weapons. First question: Explain the principle of equilibrium as it applies to arcane energy channels. Be concise, yet complete. ”

The room held its breath. You drew in a deep one of your own, steadying your pulse. This was your battlefield. You could do this.

Figarland’s hand rose, impossibly slow, casual almost to the point of theatrics. When he spoke, the sound was honeyed, calm enough to make your blood boil.

“ Equilibrium in arcane channels is achieved by the harmonic distribution of energy nodes, ensuring that each conduit neither overflows nor collapses. Imbalance leads to backlash and- ”

He paused, eyes glinting faintly as they flicked toward you. A thrill of irritation surged through your chest. The audacity.

You lifted your own hand, drawing the attention of the room. “ No, ” you said, voice sharp, every syllable a blade. “ Equilibrium is maintained through active regulation of energy flow, not merely harmonic distribution. Passive alignment, what you describe permits minor fluctuations to magnify into catastrophic failures. The network must be monitored, adjusted, corrected. Otherwise, the system collapses entirely. ”

Gasps rippled across the classroom. Someone dared to contradict Shamrock. The teacher’s eyes flicked between the two of you, caught in some delicate balance of fear and fascination. “ I-Interesting. Continue, ” he said, voice careful, not wanting to interfere with what was clearly already a duel neither student intended to lose.

Shamrock’s lips curved into a polite, controlled smirk. “ I acknowledge your point, ” he said smoothly with amusement, “ but harmonic distribution inherently involves constant monitoring. Passive alignment is theoretical, my method ensures the system’s equilibrium naturally conforms to its architecture. Your method is effective, though labor-intensive. ”

Labor-intensive. The word struck like a whip across your composure. You could feel your quill tremble slightly in your hand. “ Labor-intensive? ” you repeated, low and lethal. “ Harmonic distribution without intervention is fantasy. Theory unchecked invites collapse. And your method- ”

“ -chaos, ” he finished smoothly, serene, as if he had anticipated every word. His braid glinted in the sun as his eyes met yours for the briefest instant, a flash of calm precision. “ Exactly. Yet you presume manual correction superior. It is not. Predictive precision outmatches reactive adjustment every time. ”

Every muscle in you tightened, nerves alight with indignation. “ Predictive does not mean infallible, ” you said, teeth clenched, voice tight. “ You cannot foresee the subtle fluctuations when multiple nodes interact dynamically. Your assumption of control ignores cascading effects. It is reckless. ”

The teacher leaned back, hand on chin, almost savoring the spectacle. “ A fascinating debate, ” he said softly. “ Both arguments merit further elaboration. I expect a written submission from both of you by the end of class and I expect rigor. ”

Shamrock inclined his head slightly toward you, still composed. “ I look forward to your reasoning, ” he murmured softly, conspiratorial, almost intimate. “ It will be illuminating. ”

Your cheeks flamed, and your fingers tightened on your quill. “ And I yours, ” you hissed under your breath, low enough for only yourself to hear, lethal in its quiet threat.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of scratching quills and polite murmurs, but your gaze never wavered from him. Every subtle motion, every calculated pause, every word he uttered was a challenge you refused to ignore.

This was no longer idle irritation. No longer a simple academic exercise. This was war, a war of intellect, strategy, and nerve.

And you would not yield.

The lesson dragged on like molten gold, the teacher’s voice a steady hum of pedagogy. You sat, rigid and vigilant, every muscle taut, because Shamrock was in the room, in the same class, with that infuriating calm as though the universe had handed him a permanent throne beside you.

The teacher finally concluded the lecture with a simple instruction: “ All papers for evaluation, please pass them forward. ”

A ripple of indifference washed over the classroom. Most students, celestial dragons through and through, simply ignored the request, leaning back, twirling pens, or quietly exchanging bored glances. Some used the opportunity to sketch insignias on their robes. Others whispered critiques of the teacher’s choice of ink. Their sense of duty had flown out the window, leaving only aristocratic apathy.

You clenched your pen like a sword. Shamrock’s gaze flicked toward you, mild amusement hidden behind those infuriatingly perfect lashes. You could feel his challenge in the air, an unspoken declaration: first to the papers wins.

The teacher, busy adjusting robes, hadn’t noticed. The moment was subtle, clandestine, but it mattered. You slid your paper across the desk just enough to nudge it toward the aisle, eyes flicking to him. Shamrock mirrored your motion with casual precision, paper gliding silently across the polished wood.

And then it happened.

You leaned forward, heart racing, subtle as a hunting cat, pushing your paper inch by inch. Shamrock did the same, an imperceptible grin tugging at his lips. The two of you moved in slow-motion, a ridiculous, silent contest. Who could pass the paper first without drawing attention?

A bead of sweat tickled your temple as your fingers brushed the paper’s edge Shamrock’s fingers brushed it too. You froze. He froze. Time itself seemed to hold its breath. And then, with a slight flick of your wrist, an elegant, imperceptible flick, you sent the paper sliding down the aisle only to see Shamrock’s paper glide alongside yours, perfectly parallel, as if mocking the very concept of effort.

The teacher finally looked up just in time to see both papers arrive in a neat heap at the front of the classroom. “ Well, efficient, ” he murmured, oblivious. “ I appreciate- ”

You and Shamrock exchanged a glance, equal parts exasperation, triumph, and sheer ridiculousness. Around you, the class barely stirred; a few students yawned, some scribbled doodles, a few even took the opportunity to nap mid-race. No one else cared.

And in that moment, it was clear: the contest had been won, not by skill, not by speed, but by sheer audacity.

You leaned back in your chair, lips twitching in the tiniest, begrudging smile. Shamrock tilted his head, smirk gentle but victorious.

The battle was subtle, ridiculous, utterly unobserved and utterly perfect.

From the moment you stepped into the next class, the air itself seemed to tremble with unspoken competition. He was already there, sitting with the perfect posture, braid falling over his shoulder just so, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. The class was full of celestial dragons, lounging and twirling jeweled pens, ignoring the teacher entirely but you and Shamrock you were on a battlefield invisible to everyone else.

The first question came from the teacher. “ Explain the significance of the Etherian Codex in shaping noble law. ”

Your hand shot up. Of course it did. Shamrock’s hand shot up a millisecond later.

“ I believe the Codex, ” you began, voice crisp, “ represents- ”

“ The Codex, ” he interrupted smoothly, “ not only represents, but dictates the subtle interplay- ”

“ Excuse me, I was speaking! ” you snapped, red rising to your cheeks.

“ I noticed, ” he replied calmly, tilting his head, “ but one must always consider all perspectives. ”

The teacher blinked. “ Both…correct? ”

“ Yes, ” you said simultaneously, in perfect unison, glaring across the room.

Assignments were no refuge. Essays became a clandestine war of ink. Your notes were sharp, pointed, meticulous. His were elegant, flawless, infuriatingly complete. Every teacher who glanced at them could not help but pause and the rest of the class? They doodled or napped.

During a particularly long lecture on the politics of minor noble houses, the rivalry erupted again. The teacher asked, “ What was the primary cause of the Raldorian Schism? ”

“ Economic disparity, ” you began, quill poised for emphasis.

“ Philosophical misinterpretation, ” Shamrock said smoothly, fingers brushing over your notes as he leaned slightly closer.

“ Do you think you can simply rewrite history? ” you hissed under your breath.

“ History is a living thing, ” he whispered back, voice silk, “ and we merely observe the unfolding drama. ”

Your hand shot up again, papers trembling. The teacher, entirely bewildered, shrugged and said, “ Both very good. ” The other students didn’t even look up.

Then there were the tests. Oh, the tests. The teacher announced, “ Pass your exam papers to the front when finished. ” Most of the celestial dragons did whatever they liked: tossed theirs on the floor, scribbled nonsense, or disappeared entirely. But you two? It became a race.

Not obvious. Not blatant. Subtle. Like a duel in shadows. Elbows collided. Hands reached. Quills nearly tangled.

“ Don’t you dare- ” you muttered, lunging forward.

“ First, always first, ” he replied, voice smug, sliding the paper toward the edge of your desk.

You yanked it back. “ I will not be- ”

“ Cheated of glory? ” he supplied, eyes twinkling.

By the time the teacher realized what was happening, the two of you had inadvertently caused a domino effect of chaos. The first-year girl with the golden tiara screamed as her papers flew, how unladylike. The boy behind you toppled his inkpot, which spilled across a stack of ornamental tomes, disgraceful. Shamrock merely adjusted his braid, paper in hand, eyes serene. You, cheeks flaming, gripped your own test like a trophy, determined.

Even group work became absurd. You were forced together, naturally, and every task became a silent war of strategy. Who wrote which sentences, who used the fancier Marijoan phrases, who arranged the margins more elegantly. Every correction, every suggestion, every “ Oh, do allow me- ” and “ I insist- ” was a jab, a test, a strike in an invisible duel only you two understood.

One day, the teacher finally exploded. “ Why is it that every single time you two are in the same room, the class cannot proceed?! ”

“ You simply cannot comprehend subtle excellence, ” Shamrock replied, cool as ice.

“ I am far beyond subtle, ” you snapped. “ I am precision incarnate, something you will never- ”

“ -match, yes, yes, we all see, ” he said, smiling faintly, the faintest echo of amusement in his voice.

By the end of every class, the two of you emerged victorious or at least equally undefeated. Every glance, every quip, every paper passed became part of the symphony of rivalry that no one else noticed. The celestial dragons lounged, oblivious, while the two of you danced a deadly ballet of intellect, wit, and stubborn pride.

And somewhere, deep in your chest, the truth settled: this rivalry was no longer about winning grades or teacher approval. It was a secret war of perfection, of fire against fire, of pride and brilliance mirrored. Neither of you would ever admit it aloud, but every class, every assignment, every passing of the paper only strengthened the unspoken truth: you existed because he did, and he because you did and the world, for all its oblivious opulence, could never contain the intensity of your duel.

The classroom had emptied, leaving only the faint smell of ink, the soft tang of chalk, and the scattered debris of a day fought in whispered calculation and shouted precision. Papers lay in small, chaotic piles, some edges curled from careless handling. Inkwells sat overturned, drying in dark puddles on polished wood. The other celestial dragons had drifted away, bored or indifferent, leaving only the two of you.

You gathered your things, skirts folded with care, quill and manuscripts pressed to your chest as if they were shields. Your cheeks still burned from the heat of the day’s battles, flushed with indignation, exhaustion, and the lingering hum of adrenaline.

He lingered, near the window, braid catching the fading light like a strand of gold, posture impossibly casual. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with that same infuriating precision that had haunted every interaction today. He smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that seemed crafted to disarm and provoke simultaneously.

“ You know, ” he said softly, voice smooth enough to coax warmth from the coldest day, “ I find your fury…enthralling. ”

You froze mid-motion, hands clutching your manuscripts as if they could anchor you to reality. “ What? ”

“ Your indignation, ” he continued, taking a single, measured step closer. “ The flare of your eyes when someone challenges you. The deliberate sharpness of your movements. The exact rhythm of your anger. ”

“ Excuse me? ” Every hair on your neck prickled, every nerve ignited.

He tilted his head further, eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. “ …The way you lean when you snatch a paper back from my hand. The way your fingers curl over the quill, almost like claws. It is captivating. ”

You blinked, uncertain whether to be horrified, flustered, or furious. “ You find what? ”

“ Your essence, ” he said simply, as though the words were mundane, harmless observations. “ The way you are. I appreciate it intensely. ”

Your jaw tightened. Was he joking? Mocking you? Or your stomach dropped at the thought was he completely, terrifyingly serious?

“ And you, ” he murmured, stepping closer again, deliberate, measured, eyes locking on yours, “ you are mine, in a manner rivaled only by your defiance. I will know where you are, always. I will see your brilliance, anticipate your movements, and.. ” He paused, letting the words hang between you like a blade suspended by a thread. “ ....and savor them. ”

Your hands froze mid-motion, hovering over your manuscripts. Your mind scrambled. “ You… what? ”

“ Do not fear, ” he said, tilting his head, expression calm, almost tender in the golden light of the setting sun. “ I only wish to observe. To study. To savor. Your perfection in chaos. You do not yet understand, but one day, perhaps you will. ”

The hallway outside was silent. Empty. Even the servants, normally bustling, seemed miles away. The sunlight caught the braid over his shoulder, highlighting threads of gold in the dark. For a single, impossible heartbeat, he looked almost human. Almost tender.

And yet, all you could think was: I am utterly uncomprehending. This is absurd. Terrifying. Wrong.

“ Right, ” you said finally, voice tight, controlled, gripping your manuscripts as though your life depended on it. “ I suppose I will see you tomorrow. ”

He inclined his head, still serene, the faintest curve of a smile lingering. “ I will be anticipating it. ”

You turned, boots clicking against the polished floor, heart racing like a caged thing. Every nerve hummed with confusion and a strange, undeniable tension. These days absurdity, the rivalry, the intellectual duels, and now this swirled into a storm that left you teetering on the edge of exasperation and fascination.

And Shamrock? He remained by the window, watching. Waiting. Unyielding. Satisfied.

He is insane. You are terrified. This is ridiculous. And yet somehow, impossibly, you cannot look away.

You returned home, the carriage wheels' echoes fading like distant drums, leaving only the soft clatter of your boots against the cobbled courtyard and the swish of skirts clinging uncomfortably to your legs. The house was unusually still, a deceptive calm that pressed against your ears. And then, faintly, almost imperceptibly at first, came the sounds of murmured pleasure drifting from the main salon.

Curiosity flared, sharpened by your instinctive judgment, and you drew closer, every step cautious, heart tightening. Through the half-open door, you glimpsed your mother, Saintess Venyn, radiant and cruel in equal measure. Gold and pearls gleamed against her gown, a constellation of wealth and authority, as she presided over one of her favored slaves. Her hands moved with the slow, deliberate grace of someone used to command, tracing arcs and gestures that were both instruction and indulgence. The slave responded with the docility of trained perfection, murmuring under her touch, body and voice perfectly attuned to the Saintess’s whims.

Your stomach turned. Each flick of her wrist, each soft coo, the tilt of her head as she surveyed her creation, it made your skin crawl. She measured beauty and obedience as others might measure the weight of gold, and your blood sang with a hot, bitter revulsion.

Before you could retreat, her eyes found you. They lit with a predatory brilliance, the warmth of maternal affection twisted with a sharp edge of entitlement.

“ Ah, my dear..!~ ” she cooed, voice honeyed and commanding, “ Come here. Let me see you. ”

You froze instinctively, wary of the touch that would never be tender, only assessing, only consuming.

Her gaze swept over you, slow and exacting. “ Your hair, your complexion, you must be perfect..” she murmured, circling you like a jeweler inspecting a gem. Every syllable dripped expectation, every pause punctuated by unspoken judgment. “ And speaking of perfect, there is a boy of the Rimoshifu family, Killingham I rememer.. Such a proper match. I simply must see you meet him. Your bloom, my darling, must be admired. And cultivated..! ”

You blinked, mouth opening and closing as your mind scrambled for words, for any protest that might hold weight against her calm certainty. Nothing came. Your throat constricted as disbelief knotted your chest. Already? A marriage arrangement? A boy? And all of this before you had even reach your adulthood? You were still sixteen.

“ Of course you will go to him, ” she continued, oblivious to your silence, her voice soft but inescapably commanding. “ A girl of your station cannot delay these things. You will bloom, and the world must see it! ”

Something inside you snapped. You clenched your skirts so tightly your knuckles went white, and you turned sharply, spinning on your heel. Not today. Not ever.

“ My chambers! ” you muttered under your breath, retreating up the winding staircase, boots clicking sharply against the marble steps. Your pulse thudded in your ears, matching the furious rhythm of your thoughts.

From below, her voice rose, honey-laced and scolding, echoing through the grand house: “ Do not be so obstinate, my dear! A bloom left untended withers! Killingham awaits! You will do as I say! ”

You ignored her, slamming the door behind you with a force that made the frame shiver. Collapsing onto your bed, you pressed your face into the pillow, inhaling its faintly perfumed softness as if to escape the gilded prison of her demands.

Outside, her voice continued to drone, distant yet insistent, a reminder that your autonomy was only an illusion, a minor inconvenience in the grand orchestration of her schemes. The house itself seemed complicit, every polished surface and glimmering ornament a testament to her authority, every whispering servant an echo of her control.

And in the quiet of your chamber, the absurdity of your existence, the Akademiya, Shamrock, your parent’s relentless pursuit of perfection, the grotesque priorities of the elite, settled over you like a suffocating, gilded shroud.

You buried your face deeper into the pillow. The bloom, she said. The bloom. You clenched your fists beneath the covers, nails biting into your palms. If only they knew what truly mattered. Not appearances, not alliances, not indulgence disguised as affection.

And in that thought, simmering, stubborn, indignant, a small, defiant thrill rose. Perhaps it was enough, just enough, to steel yourself for the next round of the relentless parade called your life.

Shamrock arrived home just as the sun began to dip, casting long, oppressive shadows across the marble floors of the family estate. The familiar presence of his father, usually looming somewhere like a specter of authority, was absent. Unease prickled along Shamrock’s spine, a sensation he rarely admitted, let alone felt so sharply.

He moved cautiously through the hallways, each step echoing unnaturally in the silence. First, he checked the study, his father’s usual haunt but the room was empty. A single candle flickered, casting tremulous shadows over stacks of papers, but no sign of his father. His chest tightened, something felt off.

Something caught his eye: a newspaper, folded with deliberate care, lying on the polished desk. Shamrock picked it up, scanning the bold headline:

“ The King of the Pirates Executed. ”

The words struck him like a blade. Gol D. Roger, dead. The man whose existence had defined the chaos of the seas, whose presence had loomed like a storm on the horizon, gone. And yet, in the sterile, golden calm of the estate, the world continued, uncaring.

A shiver ran through him. A small, approving smile tugged at his lips, but it was hollow, precise, and brittle. The satisfaction was calculated, relief, but only barely. Death like that changed everything. It reminded him of how small he truly was in the grander currents of the world.

He set the paper aside, heart hammering in a rhythm he had not known for years. Footsteps soft against the marble, he moved to continue his search. Around a corner, he finally found his father, Figarland Garling speaking quietly with Shepherd Sommers.

Garling’s expression was not the usual mask of imperious control. No, there was something lighter, almost human. He was delighted, in a way that made Shamrock’s stomach tighten with disquiet. The man was discussing matters not of power, but of personal satisfaction.

Shamrock crouched in the shadows, unseen, the weight of his unease pressing down. Then, a word floated through the air, casual yet knife-sharp,

“ Shanks will be returning to Mariejois, ” his father stated.

Shamrock stilled, his pulse snapping like a taut wire. That name, Shanks. His twin. His shame.

He had never met his twin, yet the stories had reached even the silken halls of their home. A Figarland born to grace and power, now tainted by pirates, by Gol D. Roger himself, the filth who had mocked the world’s order before meeting the blade. And now he was returning?

Shamrock’s stomach twisted. The thought was absurd, insulting. A creature who had lived among the gutters of the sea should never set foot in Mariejois again, let alone bear the same face as his.

But beneath the anger, beneath the disgust he clung to like armor, something colder stirred. Doubt.

What if this Shanks, this pirate’s whelp, carried a kind of power that no title or training could match? What if he was better, without even trying?

The idea burned.

He pressed his nails into his palms, jaw locking until he tasted iron. For years he had shaped himself into perfection, manners, posture, speech, every inch the son his father demanded. And yet a boy who had grown up among vermin could threaten all of it with a smile and a name.

A shiver ran through him, equal parts fury and fear.

Slowly, Shamrock lifted his chin, schooling his features into composure. If Shanks dared set foot in Mariejois, he would find no welcome here, only judgment.

Let him come. Let the world see the difference between a god and a pirate.

And if that difference wasn’t enough, Shamrock would make sure it was.

A pirate takes what they want, whether it’s legal or not.

It wouldn’t matter. Laws were chains to most men of the sea. Rules were a joke, whispered warnings, and the taste of freedom was far too sweet to surrender. Most pirates were selfish, self-serving, greedy, chasing power, wealth, or notoriety.

Shanks was not most pirates.

Selfish, perhaps. Self-serving, maybe. Greedy? Never. He was a different breed entirely. He was adventurous. Free. Freedom was the treasure he lived for and the same freedom he offered to those he cared about. His crew, his friends, his allies and even you.

You had been nothing special at first. A girl stuck in a small East Blue village, a life of predictable routines and unfulfilled dreams. But Shanks saw something others never did. A spark hidden behind your quiet demeanor, a fire in your eyes when they met the horizon. You stared at the sea as if it were a challenge, a promise, and perhaps a question: Would anyone dare follow?

Shanks did.

He approached you one evening as the sun dipped below the waves, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson. Your hair caught the wind, your eyes shimmering with the reflection of the open sea. “ Ever thought of sailing? ” he asked, casually, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Not as a command, not as an obligation but as a possibility.

You laughed, thinking he was joking. “ Me? Sail? I- ”

He smiled, the kind of smile that made the world pause for a heartbeat. “ I’m serious. You can choose. Stay here, live as you’ve always lived…or come with me. See the world, and meet its wonders. ”

The fire in your heart answered before your lips could. That was the moment you became a part of his story, and he a part of yours.

Life aboard his ship was nothing like you imagined. It was messy, chaotic, and beautiful. You learned to climb the rigging, navigate by the stars, and laugh, because Shanks would laugh louder than anyone else, proving that nothing could ever be taken too seriously. He celebrated life in its purest form, and he made sure you did too.

Yet, amid all the adventures, he never lost sight of you. Not in the way that suffocates or confines, but in the way that sees and cherishes. He respected your freedom as fiercely as he did his own. Every choice was yours to make, every path your own to take. But he was always there steady, unwavering, a touchstone amid the storm of life at sea.

Months turned into years, and the bond between you deepened like the sea itself, vast, unpredictable, and enduring. You laughed at the same jokes, braved storms together, and shared quiet moments beneath the stars. And slowly, unspoken but inevitable, a promise took root.. a love not bound by land, not confined by chains, but forged in trust, and freedom.

It had been unexpected. Neither of you planned it. You thought yourselves too wild, too unmoored to settle. But here you were: two hearts intertwined, two souls daring to carve a life from adventure, laughter, and loyalty.

You had each other, and that, Shanks believed, was the greatest freedom of all.

The sea had a rhythm of its own, a pulse that seemed to sync with your heartbeat over time. Days blurred into nights and nights into days, but the ocean never felt the same twice. Waves whispered secrets against the hull, gulls cried overhead, and the wind carried the scent of salt and freedom. And through it all, Shanks was there.

He wasn’t the type to hover or fuss. That wasn’t him. But if danger ever crept close, his presence was immediate, sharp, and unyielding, like a sudden gust cutting across the deck. You could feel it even before your eyes met his, an instinct, honed over years of life on the edge of lawlessness.

One morning, the sun had barely begun to warm the horizon, and you were leaning against the rail, the chill biting your cheeks. A smaller ship appeared in the distance, sails taut, approaching fast. Your first instinct was excitement; the thought of a potential raid or trade made your pulse race. Shanks, however, moved differently.

“ Stay close, ” he said, his voice low but carrying over the wind. He didn’t sound alarmed, just alert. Protective. His eyes scanned the approaching vessel like a hawk watching prey, calculating, measuring. And in that moment, you realized it wasn’t ownership you felt from him, not control but a fierce, almost instinctual care that made your heart swell.

The crew scrambled as the ship drew nearer, weapons readied, orders barked, but you noticed something odd. Shanks didn’t shout. He simply moved among his men, guiding, redirecting, subtly positioning everyone, and yet always aware of you. One of the crew caught your sleeve, worried about the approaching pirates, and you felt Shanks’ hand brush your back, a small touch, grounding, saying silently, I’ve got you.

The enemy ship’s flag was raised, black with a red emblem. Shanks squinted, tilted his head, then laughed, a rich, unrestrained sound that cut through the tension. “ Well, well…looks like they’re in a hurry for trouble. ” He drew his sword slowly, spinning it in a way that seemed more casual than threatening. But you saw the precision in his movements, the promise that no harm would come near you if he could prevent it.

The skirmish that followed was chaos, but also beauty in its rawest form. Shouts, the clash of metal, the spray of sea, all of it interwoven with moments of quiet. Amid it, Shanks’ attention flicked to you more than once. He wanted you safe, free, and unscathed, even as he thrived in the danger around you.

After the fight, when the other ship fled, you found yourself leaning against the mast, heart racing, hands trembling. Shanks approached, brushing water and sweat from his hair, eyes glinting with both amusement and concern.

“ You’re shaking, ” he said softly. Not a reprimand, not a question that demanded explanation, just a statement of fact. His hand hovered near yours for a moment, almost like a shield, and when you didn’t move, he gave a small shrug and smiled. “ Good. That means you’re alive. And alive is better than…well, anything else. ”

You laughed weakly, trying to steady your breathing. “ You make it sound so simple. ”

He crouched slightly, tilting his head as he studied you. “ It is simple. Life’s simple. Survive, laugh, and don’t get yourself killed. ” Then, leaning closer, he whispered, almost conspiratorially, “ Though I won’t forgive you if you try. ” His grin widened, teeth flashing in the morning light.

And yet, even as he teased, you sensed the edge beneath his words, the same edge that kept you safe. That edge, sharp as a blade, was tempered with care, and it thrilled and comforted you all at once.

Days later, under the vast night sky, you found yourself atop the crow’s nest, gazing at constellations while Shanks worked the sails below. The wind tugged at your hair, the stars reflected in your eyes, and the sea stretched endlessly before you. Then, a shout from below: “ Captain! Someone’s approaching! ”

You felt a familiar stir of anticipation, and somewhere in the pit of your stomach, a flicker of unease. But before panic could set in, a hand, warm, confident, steady rested on your shoulder. 

“ I see it, ” Shanks said, calm, controlled. “ And it’s nothing we can’t handle. ”

You turned to him, meeting his gaze. In the darkness, his eyes shone like polished amber, fierce and untouchable. “ You always know, ” you murmured. 

“ I’ve learned a thing or two from the sea, ” he replied, voice low, almost secretive. “ And one of them is: you never let someone you care about walk into danger alone. Not unless they choose to. And even then… ” He let the sentence hang, unspoken but heavy with meaning.

As the ship sailed under the moon’s silver glow, you realized the truth of what life with Shanks meant. Freedom wasn’t just running wild, laughing at the law, or chasing treasure. Freedom was knowing that someone would stand beside you, sword in hand, heart tethered to yours, not to possess, but to protect.

The days at sea were usually predictable in their unpredictability, storms, squalls, or the occasional merchant ship but today, a different tension hovered over the ship, subtle but undeniable.

You noticed it first when one of the newer crewmates, a wiry man named Mammon, lingered too long near the deck where you were repairing sails. His glances were sharp, assessing, like he was measuring something he wasn’t supposed to care about. Shanks noticed too, of course but not in the way you might think.

He didn’t scowl. He didn’t confront Mammon immediately. He simply watched. From across the deck, leaning casually against the rigging, his eyes followed every movement, subtle but unwavering. The weight of his gaze was enough to make Mammon shift uncomfortably under it, though he didn’t leave.

“ You’re staring again, ” you whispered, brushing your hands on your trousers as if to hide your unease.

Shanks didn’t smile, not yet. “ I’m watching, ” he said simply, and the calmness in his tone carried a quiet authority that needed no explanation. “ He’s testing boundaries. I don’t like it. ”

You felt a pang of worry. Is it jealousy? you wondered, a small twinge twisting in your chest. But the way Shanks stood there, quiet, controlled wasn’t jealousy. It was something sharper, more refined: protectiveness. He wasn’t trying to claim you; he was making sure no one else could take advantage of your trust or safety.

By evening, the tension came to a head. Mammon approached the railing where you were standing, pretending to inspect the horizon, but his words were careless.

“ Ever think about leaving the captain behind? ” he asked, leaning just a little too close. “ Life’s bigger than this ship. ”

You bristled. “ I think my life is exactly where I want it, ” you said firmly, your voice stronger than you felt.

Before Mammon could reply, Shanks’ shadow fell over him. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, the other tucked casually in his coat pocket, but the presence was enough.

“ Life’s bigger than this ship? ” Shanks repeated, tilting his head with that easy smile of his, but there was ice under the charm. “ And yet you seem to forget that freedom isn’t just about leaving, it’s about choosing. And she chose this life. ”

Mammon’s eyes flicked to yours, and then back to Shanks, understanding in a flash that the pirate before him was not to be trifled with. He muttered something about fresh air and moved away, finally leaving you alone.

Shanks turned to you then, his hand brushing yours lightly. Not a possessive gesture, just a touch that said, I'm with you.

“ You okay? ” he asked.

You nodded, but your chest still felt tight. “ I am…thanks to you. ”

“ Good, ” he said, voice softening. “ Because you don’t need anyone else to fight your battles. But I’ll always be here if someone tries to make it harder. ”

The subtle difference between what he felt and what Mammon had mistaken for jealousy struck you. Shanks’ concern wasn’t about ownership; it was about care, about safety, about ensuring your freedom stayed intact. The line between love and possession had never been clearer.

The two of you sat atop the mast, legs dangling over the edge, the stars spread out like scattered diamonds across the ink-black sky. Shanks hummed quietly, the tune almost lost to the sound of the waves, and his arm rested lightly against your shoulder.

“ You know, ” he said after a moment, “ I could’ve handled that differently. Made him fear me, or said things he’d never forget. ”

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “ But you didn’t? ”

“ No, ” he said, smiling faintly. “ Because he wasn’t the threat. The threat would have been someone thinking they could decide your life for you. And that…that I can’t allow. ”

You leaned against him, breathing in the salty night air. “ I like how you do it. Quiet. Not angry. Just…watching. ”

“ Because that’s how you stay free, ” he murmured. “ And I like knowing you’re free. More than anything else. ”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The ship rocked gently and the ocean whispering against the hull.

With Shanks, you could fly anywhere, face anything, and still feel safe, loved, and utterly unbound. In that knowledge, your heart was at ease. For the first time in your life, the vastness of the sea didn’t feel daunting. It felt like home.

The moon hung low over the Red-Haired Pirates’ ship, its silver glow bouncing off the waves. Below deck, the ship was quiet, mostly. You were curled up under a blanket, fast asleep, completely unaware of the disaster brewing above.

Above, the deck was anything but calm. Shanks, bottle in hand and flushed from both rum and emotion, teetered like a majestic, unsteady king on the edge of the railing. His hair was a mess, a few strands plastered to his sweaty forehead, and tears glimmered like tiny lanterns in his eyes.

“ SHE’S….SHE’S THE BEST! ” he bellowed, voice echoing across the deck and probably scaring the nearby fish. “ THE ENTIRE SEA…THE SKY…THE STARS….THEY DON’T HOLD A CANDLE TO HER! ”

Benn Beckman groaned, rubbing his temples. “ Oh gods above…here we go again. ”

“ Yeah, I think I’m gonna be sick from the love, ” Yassop muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Hongo leaned lazily on the mast, shaking his head. “ Or from the rum. Or both. ”

Building Snake didn’t bother hiding the small smirk tugging at his lips. “ This is….something.”

Shanks stumbled forward, nearly tipping into the ocean, and flung his arms wide like he was giving the world a very heartfelt, very drunk TED Talk. “ AND SHE-..SHE LETS ME SAIL WITH HER! ME! OF ALL PEOPLE! SHE... SHE TRUSTS ME! I—I.. ”

He hiccupped violently, wiping at his tears, which did nothing but smear across his cheeks. “ HELL, I’LL MARRY HER!”

Benn froze, blinking. “ …Shanks. You already married her. ”

Shanks’ head snapped up, eyes wide and shimmering like twin lanterns. “ I DID?! I… I—oh gods—even better! I—hic!—I would marry her again! A thousand times! I would—hic!—fight the sea itself, wrestle every storm, and then propose with cannonballs if I had to! ”

Lucky Roo snorted, barely keeping it in. “ Wrestle storms and propose with cannonballs…classic Boss. ”

Shanks waved his arms dramatically, nearly toppling again. “ AND HER LAUGH! OH GODS, HER LAUGH! IT’S.. IT’S—like cannon fire… but in the best possible way! I… I… I CAN’T EVEN! SHE MAKES ME WANT TO SING LIKE A DRUNK SEAGULL, AND I… I- ”

He fell face-first onto the deck, hiccupping and rolling slightly, bottle sliding away. “ SHE’S SLEEPING RIGHT NOW! ASLEEP! SAFE! AND I… I.. I LOVE HER SO MUCH! ”

Benn muttered under his breath, exasperated, “ Someone…someone tie him to the mast before he starts declaring war on the ocean itself. ”

“ Or before he starts crying in all of our ears, ” Yassop added, shaking his head.

Hongo shrugged. “ I’m done. Let him be a disaster. ”

Building Snake smirked. “ I mean… it’s entertaining. A legendary pirate reduced to puddle-level simping.”

Lucky Roo leaned against the railing, chuckling so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “ Look at him! He’s actually trying to out-love the ocean. I can’t even. ”

Shanks rolled dramatically onto his back, gazing at the stars with one hand clutching his chest. “ EVERY STAR… EVERY WAVE… EVERY PIRATE—hic!—EVERYTHING… IT’S… NOTHING.. COMPARED TO HER! ”

“ And yet, ” Benn muttered dryly, “ he thinks shouting at the sky will convince her of that. ”

“ SHUT UP, BENN! ” Shanks roared, sitting upright, eyes sparkling with drunken determination. “ I… I LOVE HER! I LOVE HER! I LOVE HER! ”

He flopped onto his stomach again, sobbing softly, hiccupping between every tearful declaration. “ AND SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE HER! SHE DOESN’T KNOW… SHE DESERVES… SHE DESERVES THE ENTIRE WORLD! ”

Lucky Roo, barely containing his laughter, nudged one of the younger deckhands. “ I’ve never seen a pirate this melodramatic before. It’s…beautiful. ”

Benn, Yassop, Hongo, and Snake all groaned in various degrees of exasperation, but even they had to admit, it was kind of adorable.

Shanks rolled to his back again, arms wide like a victorious general, hiccupping, tears streaming down his face. “ AND I’LL MARRY HER AGAIN! YES! A THOUSAND TIMES! I WOULD—hic!—I WOULD FIGHT EVERY—EVERYTHING FOR HER! ”

Lucky Roo collapsed into laughter. “ I can’t… I just can’t… ”

And there he stayed, the Red-Haired Pirate of legend, sprawled across the deck, loudly, dramatically, and hilariously simping for his asleep wife, while the crew alternated between exasperation and amusement, the moonlight catching the glint of tears on his flushed face.

Below deck, you slept peacefully, unaware that the loudest, goofiest, and most hopelessly in-love pirate in the world was proclaiming his undying devotion in a very, very public and very, very drunk-way.

The ship was quiet, but not perfectly so. The remnants of last night’s revelry lingered in every corner. Empty bottles rolled lazily across the deck, the smell of spilled rum mixed with sea salt, and the creak of the wooden ship sounded unusually loud in the stillness.

The crew were scattered across the deck, passed out in improbable positions. Benn’s hat had fallen over his face. Yassop was draped over a barrel like a human hammock. Hongo snored softly on a coil of rope. Even Snake was snoring, head resting on Lucky Roo’s shoulder. It was a scene of total chaos, the aftermath of too much celebration, and yet it was peaceful.

Shanks stirred first. His eyes cracked open, still bleary and red from sleep or maybe from last night’s emotions and he yawned loudly, hiccupping mid-yawn. The bottle in his hand had rolled away, but he didn’t care. His mind was already elsewhere.

He stumbled, barely upright then steadied himself against the railing. The sun was just beginning to stretch its fingers across the horizon, painting the sea in soft gold and pink. He took a shaky breath, still feeling the lingering warmth of rum in his chest, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

His gaze shifted below deck, where he had left you sleeping.

There you were, curled up in a blanket, hair spread over the pillow, breathing soft and steady. Even half-asleep, your presence seemed to fill the entire room with warmth. Shanks’ chest tightened in a way only you could do to him, and he let out a hiccupping chuckle.

Careful not to wake the crew or you, if he could help it, he stumbled down the steps, each step a wobbly negotiation with gravity.

When he finally reached you, his smile softened into something entirely different: gentle, reverent, full of adoration. He paused for a moment, just watching you breathe, memorizing the curve of your face, the rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair caught the faint morning light.

Without thinking too much, he crawled slowly, deliberately, over to you, careful not to jostle you awake.

“ Morning… my love… ” he murmured softly, hiccupping. His voice was low, intimate, uncharacteristically quiet for the Red-Haired Pirate, who had spent most of the night shouting at the stars about how wonderful you were.

He reached out, draping an arm over you, tugging you close. You stirred slightly, shifting in your sleep, but didn’t wake. Shanks’ cheek rested against your hair, warm, rum-scented, and entirely devoted.

“ You…you’re safe and I’m here…Always… always here, ” he whispered, closing his eyes against your hair. “ No storm, no pirate, no ocean..nothing could touch you while I’m around. Not today. Not ever. ”

A quiet breath, a hiccup, then a soft sigh. He hugged you closer, just holding you, the way someone holds something precious they never want to let go of. He could feel your warmth against him, the rhythm of your breathing, and it settled him more than any sea or adventure ever could.

For a while, the world outside, the sleeping, snoring crew, the gentle sway of the ship, the faint pink of morning sunlight didn’t matter. There was only this: you, him, and the soft, quiet sanctuary of a hug that said more than words ever could.

Even drunk, even loud, even chaotic Shanks had never felt more at peace.

And in that moment, wrapped around you, he knew exactly what freedom meant: not the open sea, not adventure, not treasure but this. You.

The world could wait.

The warmth of Shanks’ embrace pulled you gently from sleep. At first, your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light that filtered below deck. The ship swayed lightly, a gentle rhythm that usually made you feel at peace. Today, though it was interrupted by the faint, unmistakable scent of alcohol lingering in the air.

“ Shanks… ” you murmured softly, trying not to startle him. His face was nuzzled into your hair, still flushed from sleep or last night’s rum and he gave a contented, sleepy sigh.

“ Mmm… morning, my love, ” he mumbled, voice rough and thick with sleep. His arm tightened around you instinctively, as if even in slumber he feared letting go.

You wrinkled your nose. “ Shanks….you smell like a tavern, ” you said, half-amused, half-exasperated. “ I told you not to drink so much… ”

He was mumbling incoherently, then buried his face deeper in your hair. You sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “ One of these days, I’m going to have to give you a proper scolding for this, ” you teased, gently adjusting your body so you were more comfortable.

Shanks shifted slightly in his sleep, letting you take the lead. Your arms curled around him, guiding him into a more snug, protective position. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, slow breaths syncing together. You chuckled softly at how utterly unbothered he seemed by last night’s antics.

“ Better? ” you whispered, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

He groaned softly, hugging you closer without even opening his eyes. “ Mm… better… you’re…… perfect… ” he mumbled, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he could somehow hold onto the feeling forever.

Your heart swelled. You stroked his hair gently, careful not to wake him too abruptly. “ I love you, ” you murmured, voice barely louder than a sigh.

“ Love…you too, ” he muttered in response, sleepy, his voice muffled against your hair. His hold tightened just slightly, and you could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart relax.

You let yourself settle into the quiet comfort of him, the sway of the ship, and the lingering warmth of his embrace. The scent of rum and the faint traces of last night’s chaos faded against the safety of this moment.

Shanks, still half-drunk, half-asleep, fully content, let out a satisfied sigh and melted further into your arms. You felt him drift back into sleep, murmuring incoherent but unmistakably affectionate words in the quiet of the morning.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, and let him rest. For now, there was nothing else in the world that mattered but the two of you, tangled in warmth, love, and the slow, comforting rhythm of the sea.

Shanks slept satisfied, and you stayed there, holding him close, knowing that this.. this simple, quiet moment was more precious than any treasure in the world.

The first rays of sun spilled across the deck, lighting up the aftermath of the previous night’s chaos. Empty bottles, spilled rum, and snoring crew members were scattered in every direction, creating what could only be described as organized chaos.

Shanks, blissfully unaware of the world outside, was still curled around you below deck. His arm was draped over your waist, and his face was buried in your hair. You stirred slightly, savoring the warmth and security of his hold, but let him sleep, still half-drunk, half-sleeping, and completely smitten.

Above deck, the groans of the waking crew began.

“ Ugh… my head… ” Yassop muttered, rubbing his temple as he rolled off a barrel.

“ Never. Again, ” Hongo added, collapsing onto the deck with a dramatic groan.

Lucky Roo peeked around a stack of crates, snickering. “ I think Boss went full melt last night. ”

“ Full what? ” Benn asked, lifting his hat from his face to reveal a very unimpressed expression.

Snake, standing nearby and barely able to contain his laughter, muttered, “ He’s gonna get in trouble if he wakes her up like that. ”

Curiosity or perhaps mischief got the better of Benn, Yassop, and Hongo. They crept down the stairs, trying to see what their captain had been babbling about all night.

And then they saw it.

Shanks sleeping like a content, drunken teddy bear with his arm around his wife, who was now fully awake and adjusting herself to curl closer to him. His face was flushed, lips slightly parted, murmuring soft, incoherent words. His hand occasionally twitched as if emphasizing a point, probably about how amazing you were.

Benn snorted, shaking his head. “ Of course he does this. Who else would melt like a puddle over his wife while half-drunk? ”

Yassop groaned loudly. “ I’m going to regret living on this ship. ”

Hongo simply shook his head, muttering, “ I give up. ”

Lucky Roo, however, doubled over in laughter, pointing a finger. “ Look at him! Boss’ a disaster. And a cute disaster! ”

“ Disaster is one word for it, ” Benn muttered dryly, “ melted puddle of goo is another. ”

Shanks stirred slightly, mumbling in his sleep, “ Don’t.. leave her…” His voice was muffled against your hair, completely oblivious to the audience.

You giggled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “ Shhh… he’s asleep. Let him be. ”

Yassop shook his head, chuckling. “ You really are the only one who can handle this. Anyone else would have run screaming. ”

Benn sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “ I think I’m going to need another drink just to recover from watching this. ”

As the crew slowly dispersed, some snickering, some grumbling, you adjusted yourself closer to Shanks, wrapping your arms around him. He pulled you in tighter instinctively, murmuring in his sleep, “ Love you… ”

“ I love you too, ” you whispered softly, pressing your cheek to his.

Shanks sighed contentedly, finally letting the chaos of the world fade completely. The Red-Haired Pirate, drunk, dramatic, and completely hopeless in love, slept satisfied in your arms, while the crew outside shook their heads, muttered complaints, and secretly smiled at the ridiculous, beautiful mess that was their captain.

And in that quiet, chaotic, sunlit moment below deck, there was nothing else in the world but the two of you, perfect, happy, and utterly in love.

Day Twenty-three.

The silence had began to rot.

You noticed it first in the way the walls echoed differently as though even the stone had grown weary of holding its breath. The castle’s stillness no longer felt reverent, merely resentful. It pressed on you like a hand, heavy, challenging. And if Mihawk noticed the shift, he said nothing.

He never did.

You had already written everything about him that could be observed without getting killed. His training, precise and endless. His wine consumption (which is a lot), alarming but consistent. His reading habits disturbingly austere. You could practically chart the man’s personality by the spines of his books; military treatises, philosophy, a suspicious number of tomes on horticulture. You had yet to find a single piece of fiction.

A man without fiction, you decided, was a man dangerously allergic to joy.

And that, you told yourself one fog-drenched morning, was unacceptable.

So you made it your mission to fix that.

It started innocently enough. A little background music.

You woke early, long before dawn, and decided the castle could use something other than the endless whisper of the sea. You found an old gramophone in the corner of one of the ruined sitting rooms, a relic of the Muggy Kingdom’s better days and after a few minutes of dust and mild electrocution, managed to coax life into it.

When Mihawk descended the staircase, immaculate as always, sword glinting even in the half-light, the first thing he heard was not the usual morning hush.

It was you, halfway down the hall, pretending to waltz with an invisible partner to a crackling waltz that sounded like it had been recorded inside a coffin.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs. You saw him. You bowed. Deeply.

“ Count Dracule, ” you said, voice perfectly formal, “ welcome to the ballroom. ”

His eyes, those gold, predator eyes moved over you without a flicker of expression. “ What are you doing? ”

“ Cultural enrichment. ”

He looked at the gramophone, then at you. “ It’s noise. ”

You tilted your head, smiling sweetly. “ That’s music. You just haven’t met rhythm before. ”

He said nothing. The silence stretched, an invisible blade between you. With terrifying calm, he crossed the room, lifted the needle, and ended the song.

You blinked. “ That was rude. ”

He looked at you, a gaze that could dissect atoms. “ No, ” he said quietly. “ That was mercy. ”

You laughed, delighted. “ You have a sense of humor! ”

He was already walking away.

“ Don’t worry! ” you called after him. “ I’ll find something you like! ”

He did not answer. But you could have sworn, could have sworn, the edge of his coat flicked just a little faster as he vanished down the corridor.

Day Thirty.

The fog had grown thicker. So had your boredom.

You’d begun naming the crows again. Mihawk pretended not to notice, but you could see the subtle tension in his jaw every time you addressed one by title.

“ Baron von Pecks, ” you greeted one morning, tossing crumbs across the railing.

Mihawk did not look up.

“ Lady Feathersworth, a pleasure as always. ”

Still nothing.

“ And Lord Screechington- ”

“ Stop. ”

You turned, all innocence. “ Stop what? ”

“ The nonsense. ”

“ Observation, ” you reminded him. “ It’s in the job description. ”

“ Your definition of observation is flawed. ”

“ On the contrary, it’s expanding. I’m studying social hierarchy within avian communities. Fascinating creatures, crows. Highly intelligent. Almost human. ”

He looked up then, slow. “ Almost? ”

You smiled. “ Smarter, sometimes. ”

The look he gave you could have felled lesser mortals. You logged it mentally as “ expression: imperceptibly murderous. ”

Day Forty-Five.

You had developed an unfortunate habit of talking while he trained.

It wasn’t intentional at first, merely an idle comment or two about form and posture. But it turned into an experiment, and experiments required consistency.

“ Isn’t repetition dull? ” you asked, leaning against a pillar as he executed a flawless cut through the morning mist.

He didn’t answer.

“ I mean, perfection’s great and all, but what’s left once you’ve reached it? ”

Another strike. Air hissed.

“ Maybe try something new? Like… juggling swords? ”

A pause. A faint exhale.

You bit your lip, hiding a smile. “ I could fetch some fruit. Apples. Targets. Me. ”

The sword stopped, hanging in mid-air, black steel gleaming with quiet menace. He turned his head, just enough for one golden eye to find you.

“ That would be the last thing you fetch. ”

“ Tempting offer, ” you said softly, tilting your head. “ But I’m attached to my limbs. ”

He resumed practice, silent as the grave.

You wrote later in your journal:

Subject’s patience considerable. Recommend further pushing. Possibly with louder music.

Day Fifty-one.

You had learned the rhythm of his sighs.

They were rare, subtle, but they existed, the faintest tremor in the fortress of composure. You began to treat each one as a victory.

A single sigh earned when you rearranged the entire library alphabetically by title.

A double sigh (a personal best), when you placed his wine bottle in the icebox with a note that read: “ For preservation. ”

And a masterpiece, when you replaced his bookmark with a dried rose.

He didn’t say a word about it. But later that evening, you found the rose pressed neatly between the pages of your own notebook, weighted down by a dagger.

Message received.

You only smiled. “ Progress. ”

Day Sixty-two.

You had grown bold. Too bold, perhaps.

It began with a blade.

You found a small training sword among the armory racks, light, well-balanced, clearly beneath Mihawk’s notice. It gleamed temptingly in the half-light, a child beside Yoru’s shadow. You picked it up, experimentally, and the weight sang in your hand.

You didn’t intend to swing it. Not at first. But curiosity is a stubborn thing, and the idea of standing in his place, feeling that wanton grace was irresistible.

You mimicked one of his forms , the low sweep, the turn of wrist, the deliberate pivot and it was, frankly, awful. Clumsy. You nearly dropped the sword.

That’s when you heard him.

“ Put it down. ”

The voice came from behind you, low and cold enough to freeze marrow.

You turned, slowly. Mihawk stood in the doorway, unreadable, though the faint tension in his jaw spoke volumes.

“ Just testing form, ” you said lightly. “ For research. ”

He stepped closer. The air changed temperature.

“ Do you have any idea, ” he murmured, “ how many men have died attempting to imitate what they do not understand? ”

You arched a brow. “ I’m only pretending to be suicidal. ”

“ That is not comfort. ”

You smiled, inching the blade back into its rack. “ Relax. Observation only, remember? ”

His gaze sharpened. “ You are not observing. You are provoking. ”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “ Semantics. ”

For a heartbeat, the world went still. You felt it, the weight of his stare, the breath between threat and something far more dangerous.

Then, finally, he exhaled a sound like thunder held in check. “ You’re insufferable. ”

“ Consistently so. ”

He turned away before you could see the flicker , the ghost of amusement that passed like a shadow over his mouth.

Day Seventy-Four.

You were beginning to suspect that Mihawk’s self-control wasn’t infinite. It merely operated on a longer fuse.

You had learned the landscape of his temper, the subtle expressions, the fractional delays in his movements, the way his fingers tightened infinitesimally around Yoru’s hilt when you went too far. And you were beginning to crave those reactions like small doses of forbidden wine.

One evening, as the storm rolled in from the east, you found him in the great hall, seated by the fire. He was reading again, a book so ancient its spine looked ready to crumble.

You approached quietly, but he spoke first.

“ If you’re planning another experiment, I suggest you reconsider. ”

“ Observation, ” you corrected automatically. “ And I was only going to ask- ”

“ No. ”

You blinked. “ You don’t even know the question. ”

“ I do. ”

“ Impressive. Do you also read minds? ”

“ Only loud ones. ”

You laughed, softly. “ You mean mine. ”

He turned a page, unbothered. “ Yours never stops. ”

“ Wouldn’t you get bored if it did? ”

He didn’t answer. The firelight traced his profile, painting gold across the scarred stone of the hall. There was something almost inhuman about how still he sat, the kind of stillness only centuries or grief could teach.

And for a moment, you wondered what it must be like, living in that constant equilibrium.

“ Why do you let me stay? ” you asked quietly.

His eyes lifted. “ Because you haven’t given me a reason to remove you. ”

“ That’s not the same as wanting me here. ”

“ No. ”

You smiled faintly. “ Honest. I respect that. ”

He regarded you for a long moment. “ You mistake tolerance for interest. ”

You leaned closer, elbows on the arm of his chair, reckless enough to breach the invisible line. “ Maybe I just mistake silence for challenge. ”

His gaze lowered, a warning, a test, a slow spark in the dark.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Then he said, almost softly, “ You should be careful which challenges you choose. ”

You straightened, smile slow, satisfied. “ Oh, I intend to. ”

You left him there, firelight flickering behind you, heart beating far too quickly for someone allegedly in control.

Behind you, Dracule Mihawk exhaled once and closed his book without finishing the page.

The silence that followed was not the same. It breathed. It waited.

The game had shifted.

Day Seventy-eight.

You had decided, very scientifically, that the best way to continue your “ cultural enrichment ” experiment was to observe Mihawk up close. Not from behind a pillar. Not from across the courtyard. Up close. In his territory.

The library was your first conquest.

You pushed the heavy oak doors open, the smell of old parchment and iron filling your senses, the books arranged perfectly alphabetical and there he was seated at the central table, Yoru laid carefully across his lap like an obedient cat, reading a treatise on battlefield strategy so dense it could have doubled as a pillow.

“ Ah, ” you said brightly, stepping over the threshold, “ you’re here. Perfect timing. I wanted to- ”

You stopped. He hadn’t looked up. He rarely did. He was a statue of perfect composure, yet you noticed the slight narrowing of his eyes as they scanned the page. The tiniest tightening of the jaw.

“ ...consult you on a literary matter, ” you finished casually, sliding into the chair opposite him. “ Yes. Important research. Very serious. ”

He didn’t speak. He simply rested his hand near Yoru, fingers brushing the hilt, subtle but precise. A storm, if it had been a visible thing, would have been rolling behind those golden eyes.

“ Are you aware, ” you continued, “ that stacking books by color is historically inaccurate? ”

He looked up. One golden eye met yours, sharp enough to slice a man in half. “ And are you aware that standing in my library without permission is historically inadvisable? ”

“ Pish-posh, ” you said, gesturing toward a particularly sad stack of unaligned leather-bound tomes. “ You need me here. Someone must keep your books in order. A service, really. You’re welcome. ”

His hand twitched near Yoru. You blinked.

Note: hand twitched near sword. Possibly significant.

Day Eighty-Two.

Training grounds. Mist curling over the stones like slow smoke. You had decided it would be 'educational' to observe the perfect cut up close. Very close. Three paces too close, but who was counting?

Mihawk executed a strike that would have cleaved a small tree in half, and you leaned just enough to whisper:

“ Ever consider adding a flourish? A pirouette? Something dramatic? ”

Air hissed around his blade. You froze. He didn’t turn immediately. Just let the tension build like a drawn bowstring.

“ You should freeze, ” he said finally, voice low, deadly. “ It is…prudent. ”

“ Oh, I am frozen, ” you said. “ Frozen in admiration. See? Safe. Educational. Totally smart. ”

He exhaled. A faint tremor in the shoulders, almost imperceptible. And yet the sword didn’t move. Not really. He was fighting himself more than you.

Day Ninety-three.

The study. You had discovered it by accident or perhaps by fate because there was no sign on the door and curiosity, as always, had won. He didn’t stop you from walking in, but you felt the air thicken.

He was there, seated, reading again, a faint line of disapproval sharpening his features. You drifted toward the shelves. Hands on spines. Whispering titles under your breath.

“ Ah, The Art of Naval Strategy. Surprising, yet fascinating. Uses of Poisonous Plants. Even more fascinating. Subtle Elegance of Silence.. ” You trailed off, noticing that he wasn’t just observing, you were observed. Every tilt of your head, every inhale of dust, every soft hum you made while thumbing through leather-bound boredom killers.

“ Do you have to touch everything? ” he asked, tone quiet, restrained, but the underlying danger was palpable.

“ I must! It’s part of my methodology. And anyway, ” you added, stepping closer to inspect an ancient globe, “ we’re spatially intimate now, aren’t we? Sharing oxygen, touching the same floorboards. Chemistry. Science. Learning. ”

A subtle tightening of his jaw. One finger twitched near Yoru.

Note: finger twitched near sword again. Potential pattern.

Day Ninety-nine.

You had now fully mastered the art of almost-but-not-quite infuriating him. It was not enough to simply be near. You needed proximity with purpose.

He worked on a form in the great hall. You, naturally, observed. At first politely. Then you began walking slowly around him, studying the arc of his sword in motion, commenting on foot placement, stance, the subtlest shift of weight.

“ Really, you should consider- ” you paused dramatically as he spun past you, Yoru slicing air close enough to ruffle your hair, “ -less predictable angles. It’s much more terrifying that way. ”

His pause was humanlike. You noticed the small dip in his chest, the subtle clench of fingers.

“ You are infuriating, ” he said, each word measured, controlled, like a blade being tested against a whetstone.

“ Inevitably so! ” you said brightly, clapping softly. “ A gift, really. ”

He exhaled. And you saw it. A fraction of something you couldn’t name: entertainment? amusement? annoyance so sharp it borders on thrill? You weren’t sure. He wasn’t sure either.

Day One Hundred.

The culmination. You had been in every space, known every corner, and had begun testing the limits of his patience.

Library. Study. Training grounds. Great hall. Kitchen. Even his chair by the fire. You leaned on the arm of it, casually flipping through one of his books. He entered. Close. Too close for comfort, yet restrained.

“ Again, ” he said, hand hovering near Yoru, voice dangerous but soft, “must you…”

You looked up. “ Must I what? ”

He inhaled slowly. “ Invade every space… touch every object…speak when silence is sufficient…persist… ”

“ Science, ” you said, closing the book with a decisive snap. “ Curiosity. Entertainment. Cultural enrichment. You’re welcome. ”

His fingers brushed the hilt of Yoru, careful, controlled, but the storm behind those eyes was nearly visible. And yet he did not act.

You smiled faintly. “ I suppose you could just throw me in the ocean. ”

He paused. One golden eye flicked to you. “ And deprive myself of this? ”

Your heart skipped. There it was. That flicker. That small, unwelcome acknowledgment. The reason you were still alive, still here, still entertaining him.

You nodded, innocently, leaning back in the chair as though you had mastered patience itself.

He exhaled. Slowly. Quietly. Contained. Dangerous. But not broken. Not entirely.

And somewhere in that quiet storm, you realized: the game had entered a new phase.

A phase where proximity mattered. Where patience was tested. Where control wavered. Where curiosity might just triumph over centuries of perfect composure.

And you, naturally, were prepared to exploit every inch of it.

He is calm. An unbothered sea, he tells himself that. Then he hears your laughs.

It is the kind of sound that should not exist here, not within these walls of stone and fog and silence. It shatters the air, uninvited, wild, a burst of warmth in a place designed for solitude. It echoes through the hall like a sin committed without remorse.

He sits there, still as the dead, wine glass suspended midair, and listens to the sound that shouldn’t matter, that shouldn’t touch him but does.

Something inside him trembles.

He does not show it. He never does. Years have made him perfect at concealment, at turning even the smallest flicker of feeling into an immovable mask. The world reads his stillness as coldness. It is easier that way.

But patience, that careful, cultivated fortress of control, has begun to crack.

He feels it in small moments. The way his hand lingers on the hilt of his sword when you walk into the room, not out of threat, but habit. The way his eyes, traitorous things, track your movements even when you do nothing worth watching. The way the silence that once soothed him now feels empty when you aren’t filling it with your endless noise.

He used to think silence was purity. That to live without noise, without interference, was the highest form of mastery. But now, when you disappear from his sight, the silence tastes like dust.

He does not remember when that change began.

Perhaps it was the gramophone, that absurd waltz that creaked and sputtered like a ghost coughing through static. You had danced in the ruined hall, alone, ridiculous, bowing to him with mock courtesy as though you were introducing yourself to the devil. He had ended the song, thinking that would end the spell. It hadn’t.

You infect everything.

He finds your fingerprints everywhere, in the slightly misaligned stack of books, in the scent of tea that doesn’t belong in his kitchen, in the faint echo of humming from the courtyard. Every time he thinks you've overstepped the limit, he prepares to end it. He rehearses the words. The threat. The dismissal.

And every time, he finds himself saying nothing.

He tells himself it’s because you are harmless. A bureaucratic obligation. The World Government’s leash, thin and laughable, not worth a drop of blood. He could end you a hundred times over. Yet he doesn’t.

Because there is something about you that refuses to fit neatly into any category he understands.

You are reckless, undisciplined, impulsive, everything he is not. You treat danger as a joke, life as a game. And yet, behind that chaos, he can sense something sharp. A mind that studies him as thoroughly as any swordsman ever studied his form. A gaze that dissects, understands, and occasionally sees.

No one has looked at him like that in years.

People see the title. The sword. The myth. You look and see the man.

And that terrifies him.

Because the man beneath the title has been dead a long time. He buried him after the last betrayal, when the one person he trusted turned the bond they’d built into a wound. After that, he decided attachment was weakness. That patience would be his weapon, solitude his sanctuary. He built walls so high even memory couldn’t climb them.

Until you.

Now you stand inside his walls, laughing.

He wants to tell you to stop. He wants to silence you the way he silences everything that disturbs his peace. But the sound, gods help him, lingers. It winds around his thoughts like smoke.

He remembers your voice when you mock him: “ Relax. Observation only, remember? ” And he does the unthinkable, he almost smiles.

He can’t afford this. You are a representative of the World Government, an institution he neither fears nor respects. Your presence is an intrusion, a reminder of the chains he has chosen to tolerate for convenience. You should be a threat. A liability.

Instead, you're a mirror, one that reflects not his legend, but the man he once was.

You bring life into his dead spaces. Color where there was none. Warmth where cold had been a comfort.

He finds himself listening for your steps now, soft, careless, untrained so unlike from what he expected from an agent in the Cipher Pol. He knows the cadence of them, the difference between walking and pacing, between thought and mischief. He can tell when you're about to do something foolish before you even opens your mouth.

And lately, he realizes, he’s been waiting for it.

He should be angry about that. He isn’t.

It frightens him, in a quiet, unfamiliar way. Not like the fear of losing a duel or facing death, he has known those and found them wanting. This fear is slower. He feels it under his skin, in the subtle awareness that something inside him is changing against his will.

It feels like surrender.

When you look at him, truly look, it is disarming. No one meets his gaze like that. People flinch. They lower their eyes. You never do. You meet him blow for blow, word for word, daring him to feel something.

And damn you, he does.

He notices absurd things, the curve of your hand when you gesture mid-argument, the way your mouth tilts slightly when you're lying, the faint scar at your temple you pretend not to have. He shouldn’t notice. But he does.

He even starts imagining your presence in his solitude, what you would say if you saw him training, or tending to his vines, or reading by the fire. He hates himself for it, for the intrusion in his own thoughts. For the warmth it brings.

Because warmth is dangerous. Warmth softens the edges. Warmth is how the knife gets in.

He knows this. He learned it once, the hardest way.

And yet, as you laugh again, throwing your head back, unrestrained, eyes bright with mockery and something else, something that feels almost like trust, he realizes that the fortress he built isn’t cracking anymore.

It’s collapsing.

Patience, his greatest discipline, has turned against him. It keeps him still when he wants to move, silent when he wants to speak, unfeeling when every nerve screams otherwise.

He wonders if you know. If you sense the shift beneath his calm.

He doubts it. You were too busy being alive.

And maybe that is what draws him most. He has lived among ghosts so long that your presence feels like proof that the world still breathes. That he still breathes.

He wants to tell himself it will fade. That once your assignment ends, you'll leave, and the silence will return, and he will welcome it again. But he already knows the truth.

When you leave, the silence will not sound the same.

It will sound like loss.

He has trained his entire life to control his body, his blade, his emotions. He has mastered patience to the point of godhood. But none of that discipline has prepared him for this, this slow, unrelenting pull toward something he cannot define and does not want to name.

He sits there, unmoving, watching your laugh, and realizes with quiet horror.

He is falling. Not into lust, not into weakness, but into want. Into the unbearable gravity of another soul.

And for the first time in decades, Dracule Mihawk feels the sharp, unmistakable edge of fear.

He catches himself watching you again.

It happens in the smallest, stupidest ways, moments that shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t even register. A stray thread on your sleeve that his hand nearly reaches to fix before he jerks it back. The echo of your steps in the hall, how his head turns toward the sound without permission. The faint scent of whatever soap you’ve started using, citrus and something faintly sweet, lingering in rooms after you’ve gone.

He despises how he notices these things. How vividly. How often.

He sharpens Yoru for the third time that morning just to drown it out. The blade gleams. The rhythm of steel on stone should calm him, it always has. It’s mechanical, meditative. But his focus fractures, splintering into thoughts that have no place in his mind. He remembers your voice saying something ridiculous, and before he knows it, he’s smiling, faint, unwilling, a curve that feels alien on his face.

The next second, he stops. His jaw locks. The smile vanishes like it never existed.

Pathetic.

He rises, annoyed at himself. At his hands, his own pulse, the way his chest feels tight in a way that no amount of training can loosen. His body is betraying him, moving toward warmth instead of discipline. He hates it. Hates you for causing it. Hates himself most of all.

You wander into the courtyard later, humming. Always humming, tuneless, terrible, too alive. You say his name and his spine straightens like a soldier called to attention. He doesn’t look at you immediately. If he does, he’ll soften. He always does. So he pretends to ignore you. Pretends not to hear the way you drag your fingertips along the stones as you pass him, that careless grace, as if even the air bends to your whims.

When you finally leave for a moment, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for minutes. His palms ache, he realizes he’s been gripping Yoru too tightly.

He wonders when he started needing to recover from your presence.

Later, he finds one of your hair ties on the arm of the chair by the fire. A small, stupid thing, nothing of value. He should throw it away. Burn it. Instead, he picks it up, rolls it between his fingers, studies the small loop of worn fabric as though it were an artifact of some extinct civilization.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring at it. He only knows he hates himself when he pockets it.

It’s absurd, how easily you have rewritten the rhythm of his solitude. He used to find comfort in quiet, in the stillness between sea and stone. Now the silence feels heavier without your noise to irritate it. He tells himself it’s only habit, that even irritation becomes familiar after a while. But that’s a lie. He feels it in the way his chest pulls tight when he hears laughter that isn’t yours.

He doesn’t even know when this began, the descent, the unraveling.

He remembers the betrayal that came before you. The kind that carved trust out of him by the root. He swore he would never again allow someone close enough to wound him. He trained every instinct, every flicker of attachment, into obedience. He built walls from patience, from discipline, from distance.

And now here you are, pressing your palms against those walls like they were doors meant to be opened.

He tries to recall the reasons he should despise you. He lists them, silently, like a prayer. You are reckless. A nuisance. An operative of the World Government, an institution he has no reason to trust. You should be a threat. You are a threat.

But he can’t make himself believe it anymore.

He thinks of the way your eyes light when you’re about to say something foolish. The way you tilt your head when studying him, unafraid, curious, maddeningly sincere. He should find it intrusive. He finds it unbearable in another way.

He can’t look at you without remembering how long it’s been since anyone looked at him and not his legend.

He tries to sleep and fails. The sea outside is loud tonight, or maybe his thoughts are. He turns over in bed, irritated by the sound of his own heartbeat. He wonders if you are awake too. Wonders if you think of him at all.

He hates the thought that he hopes you do.

He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes until sparks bloom behind them. He has endured solitude like a creed, mastered stillness like art but this... this is different. This is chaos blooming under his ribs, steady and unrelenting.

He gets up before dawn again. He trains harder than he needs to. The sweat, the repetition, the ache, it’s all supposed to burn the feeling out. It doesn’t. It only makes him think of the first time you dared to mock his technique, how your grin had flared wide and shameless when he almost smiled back.

Almost.

He catches himself looking toward the stairs, waiting for you.

And in that moment, he realizes the truth that’s been coiling around him for weeks: his body no longer obeys him, his thoughts no longer belong to him, and for the first time in years, he is afraid.

Not of danger. Not of death. But of you.

And of what he’s becoming because of you.

The note was short. Will return when the storm has passed. Do not wait.

Mihawk left it on the carved oak desk, atop a single rose that had somehow survived the damp, rot, and possibly a very confused squirrel. He did not linger in the halls, where echoes of laughter might sneak out and trip him. He did not linger in the library, where dust bunnies apparently held mock sword duels of their own. No, he retreated, because nothing could prepare him for you.

The sea greeted him like a cat that didn’t care about his feelings. The wind tugged at his coat, his hair, and his pride. Mihawk muttered to himself: “ Focus… discipline… don’t think about them. ” Yet somewhere between a rogue seagull dive-bombing his hat and a particularly rude wave, the memory of you, tilted head, impossible laugh, uncanny ability to ruin everything kept barging in.

The solution? A duel. Steel, wind, and the subtle joy of maybe poking someone in the ribs with a sword. And the one person he could duel without spontaneously laughing himself into defeat, Shanks.

The thought made him pause. Shanks. Red hair. Grin like a mischievous lobster. Walking disaster. Yes. Chaos personified, but the acceptable kind of chaos. Not you. Not ever you. You were the kind of chaos that required hazard pay.

By midday, he found Shanks perched on a rocky outcrop, looking like a pirate-themed action figure. Wind flapped his coat dramatically. “ You look like you need to lose something today, ” Shanks said, voice echoing across the rocks like a very dramatic foghorn.

Mihawk’s hand rested lightly on Yoru’s hilt. “ Discipline. Nothing more. ”

Shanks tilted his head, shrugged, and grinned. “ Discipline. Sure. I’m sure I’ll survive. Or not. Depends on if the wind’s feeling spiteful. ”

The duel began. Steel clashed. Sparks flew or maybe Shanks was just trying to start a campfire. Mihawk’s every strike was precise, measured, deadly and yet somehow, Shanks made it look like interpretive dance. Every feint came with a spin, a wink, or a flourish that screamed, look at me, I’m fabulous and slightly insane.

Mihawk noticed, of course. And yet somehow, his mind kept wandering. Not to the duel. Not to Shanks’ chaos. But you. Why was your chaos so much more distracting than a friend flinging himself through the air with a sword?

A misstep, a small, almost laughable misstep, made Shanks instantly grin. “ Whoa! Someone’s distracted! ” He pirouetted away from a strike that could have been fatal if Mihawk were actually trying. “ Trouble on your mind? Did a squirrel steal your socks? ”

Mihawk said nothing. He could not. Not aloud. Not even to the man who would read a book mid-duel titled How to Distract Your Best Friend Without Getting Killed. His strikes faltered ever so slightly. His pivot was off. Shanks’ grin widened dangerously.

“ Hmm, ” Shanks said, spinning to dodge another swing, “ something’s bugging you. I can feel it in your dramatic pauses and your very fancy sword technique. Emotional trauma? Or did someone disturb your sleep a long while ago? ”

Mihawk’s jaw twitched. Just a fraction. That was enough.

Minutes passed like hours, with steel singing, Shanks shouting random advice mid-duel (“ Duck! Spin! Smile more! ”), and Mihawk internally screaming. Your memory was a storm. Shanks’ chaos was a manageable hurricane.

At the end of the duel, Mihawk’s chest heaved not from exhaustion, not entirely, but from effort, from the tension he had held back for far too long. Shanks clapped him on the shoulder. “ Rum? ” he asked, as his crew’s laughter carried faintly across the cliffs.

The rum bottle felt heavier in his hand than it should have, as if the weight of every unspoken word had somehow transferred into it. Mihawk turned it slowly, watching the dark liquid slosh against the glass. The duel was over. The chaos of steel, of movement and sound, had dissipated. And yet the storm inside him had not.

Shanks leaned against the railing, one leg propped up, hair catching the sunset like a shampoo commercial. He tilted his head, grinning like a man who had just remembered the punchline to a joke no one else got. “ You’re strange today, ” he said, voice smooth. “ Not like you. Is something gnawing at you? ”

Mihawk didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at the horizon with the intensity of a man who had seen too many bad sunsets.

Shanks raised an eyebrow. “ Come on. You’ve been moving like a sword-wielding statue. Cold, sharp but a little distracted. What’s up? Did someone steal your favorite blade polish? Or- ” He leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “ -did a woman steal your heart? ” The red-head was joking, yet the world's greatest swordsman flinched. FLINCHED.

Shanks noticed. Oh, he noticed.

Shanks choked on his rum. Spit it out. The sea got a free shower. “ Hahaha! Wait… WHAT? ” He coughed, laughed, then coughed again. The kind of laugh that’s somewhere between shock and amusement. “ You’re..you’re…wait, hold on...! ” He waved his hands like he was conducting an invisible orchestra of absurdity. “ A woman? Bothering you? YOU? ”

Mihawk’s face remained a mask of impenetrable calm. Not a twitch. Not a sigh. Not even a flicker of embarrassment.

Shanks leaned back dramatically, rubbing his chin, staring off into the distance as if calculating the odds of penguins piloting a pirate ship. “ This is… incredible. Truly historic. You, Dracule Mihawk, getting distracted. By someone with boobs? ” He gasped, flopped into a chair, and started laughing again, this time at the sheer ridiculousness.

Mihawk finally raised a single brow. “ … ”

Shanks grinned, eyes sparkling like a mischievous child who just caught their friend picking their nose. “ I mean, really. Who is she? Does she duel? Does she eat meat? Or does she have bad taste in rum? ”

Mihawk’s hand twitched again. Very, very slightly. He did not answer. Not that Shanks cared.

“ D’you know, ” Shanks continued, leaning on the railing with mock seriousness, “ I’d be happy to uh…negotiate a treaty. Or duel her. Or just give her a warning in my charming way. Not that I’m competitive. But, you know. Rules are rules. ”

Mihawk’s expression remained unreadable, though the faintest twitch of a shoulder betrayed something. Shanks grinned, sensing victory in the game of “Make Mihawk Admit He’s Smitten.”

“ Or, ” Shanks said, eyes gleaming with ridiculous conspiratorial glee, “ I could just tell her your sword is way sharper than your heart. Wait, no, that’s mean. Scratch that. Maybe I could just send her a fruit basket instead. ”

Mihawk’s jaw twitched. Possibly irritation. Possibly the closest thing to a blush he’d allow.

Shanks raised his bottle. “ Cheers, my friend. To the woman who’s officially ruined the world’s most stoic swordsman. May she know what she’s doing. May she live to regret it. Or, you know just keep him flustered for eternity. Hahaha! ”

Mihawk drained his own bottle in silence, as Shanks collapsed back, laughing so hard he almost fell into the water. Somewhere in the chaos, even the crew was confused, cheering wildly at the scene.

Shanks wiped tears from his eyes. “ I’m telling you, Hawk-Eye this is comedy gold. You? Flustered? HA! Someone give me a pen, I’m writing a book! ”

Shanks clapped his hands like a seal performing tricks. “ Oh! Or maybe you need coaching. Yes! I’ll coach you in the ways of love. Step one: look less intimidating. Step two: try smiling. Step three: stop glaring at me like I’m an obstacle in your romance montage. ”

Mihawk’s hand twitched a bit more, now dangerously close to drawing Yoru.

Shanks gasped in mock horror. “ Ah! Too late! You’re drawing! I’ll die! Everyone, stop him! He’s threatening me with romantic tension! ”

The crew behind them cheered wildly, confused but impressed. Shanks grabbed Mihawk by the shoulders. “ Wait, wait, wait! Before you stab me, maybe she likes it? Maybe she loves the glare! Women love mystery, right? Or did I get that from a bad soap opera? Doesn’t matter! It’s applicable! ”

Mihawk’s hand froze mid-air. His teeth clenched. His lips pressed into a line. He considered, very seriously, impaling Shanks with Yoru.

Shanks leaned back, grinning, oblivious to the danger. “ Or! Or! I could set up a fake duel for you two. You win, she’s impressed. She wins, hmm, you still look cool. Everyone wins! Except maybe me. But that’s fine, I thrive on chaos. ”

Mihawk finally sighed, a sound suspiciously like a growl. Shanks’ grin widened. “ Yes! Music to my ears! You’re flustered! I knew it! ”

Shanks grabbed another bottle and started pouring drinks for both of them. “ Here! Drink! Maybe it’ll make you brave enough to confess. Or just hiccup. Hiccups are romantic, right? That’s how couples meet. ”

Mihawk didn’t touch the drink. He only stared.

Mihawk said nothing. But for once, someone, not a single duel, not a challenge, not a storm, had truly unsettled him.

And Shanks well, he was having the time of his life.

Day One Hundred-Fifteen.

Mihawk had left. Just like that. No warning, no farewell, only a note that seemed almost smug in its brevity: Will return when the storm has passed. Do not wait.

And so here you were. Alone. For over a week. Seven. Glorious. Miserable. Terrifyingly quiet days. You sighed, long and theatrically. Boredom had never been quite so heavy. The fog clung to the castle like a damp cloak, the corridors echoed only your own steps, and the feathered aristocrats, yes, your crows eyed you with a mixture of suspicion and mild disdain.

No one to bother. No one to tease. No one to spar with verbally or otherwise. Just you, the fog, the creaking halls, and an unsettling number of crows plotting your inevitable downfall. Or maybe just judging your hair. Probably both.

And then there was the notebook. Your precious little logbook, which you were supposed to fill with meticulous notes about Mihawk’s behavior, movements, diet, emotional state whatever the government wanted. Discipline, efficiency, observation, ugh. All of it had collapsed into a pit of monotony. For fifteen days straight, nothing had happened. Nothing. Absolutely zero. You considered writing “ Mihawk is gone. I am bored. Also, the crows are judging me ” on a single page, but somewhere in your brain, the notion of governmental punishment made you shiver.

You missed him. Kind of. Not in a heart-melting, sentimental, “ oh the world is incomplete without him ” way. Sentimentality was for inefficient agents and idiots who had time to ponder emotions. No, you missed him in the very specific, very practical way one misses a storm in the middle of a desert. Life had been dull, annoyingly quiet, and terribly underwhelming. Mihawk’s absence was inconvenient. That was all. ( Yes, you do miss him that way.)

And so, to distract yourself from the unbearable tedium, you did what any self-respecting, slightly chaotic agent would do, you named things. Anything. Everything.

You started with the books. In the study. In the library. Dusty tomes that hadn’t seen a finger in decades, their spines almost daring you to touch them. Then you moved on to your colleagues, the other watchers assigned to the warlords of the world. Names flowed, some you never liked anyway. Each one was a little victory, a small amusement.

And then, you stopped.

You could not remember the name of the watcher assigned to the Warlord of Dressrosa. Of all the impossible, ridiculous, mildly terrifying things in the world, you could not remember this name. Not for love, not for logic, not for anything. You tried, oh how you tried. Your brain furiously scoured memory after memory, each failing in spectacular fashion. That was unsettling. Frightening even. You prided yourself on your memory. Names were your business. And yet this one stubborn gap. A void. A reminder that maybe, just maybe, your brain was rebelling. Or plotting something.

But before panic could fully set in, before your poor brain could collapse into existential despair, you noticed something. Far off, beyond the fog and the churning sea, a familiar shape. A coffin-like silhouette. The ship. The one Mihawk traveled in. The world’s greatest swordsman, possibly the most infuriatingly precise human alive, riding the seas in a coffin that looked far too stylish to be considered practical.

Finally.

Your days of boredom were over.

And yet, inexplicably, you were angry. Furious, even. How dare he return after leaving you to endure a week of soul-crushing monotony, not a single conversation, not even a sarcastic comment thrown your way to keep your wits sharp? He owed you. Oh yes, he owed you.

And you would see to it.

Through your actions, oh yes, you would make him pay. You would destroy his days as punishment, in exchange for the torment you might later endure if the government ever glimpsed your empty logbook. Strategic revenge, you reminded yourself, is an art form. And you were nothing if not an artist.

You grinned, sharp and slightly unhinged. You would make sure he did not leave you alone again. He would rue the day he ever thought he could vanish for more than a week without consequence. And maybe, just maybe, the crows would applaud your cunning from the rafters.

Today, the storm was over. But your chaos was just beginning.

The sea beyond Minion Island had been merciless that night, yet calmer than the storm inside Donquixote Doflamingo. After evading Tsuru’s pursuit, the ship rocked quietly in the current while its crew kept their distance. The ship had gone silent. The Family knew better than to cross their captain when that particular quiet hung in the air. Doflamingo had issued a single order: " no one disturbs me ". They knew better than to test his warning.

He had sealed himself in his office, shadows stretching long against the gilded walls. The room reeked faintly of gunpowder and spilled wine. Papers lay scattered where his temper had struck first.

Doflamingo did not grieve. No, he would not.

Grief meant softness, and softness meant weakness. He was not weak. Not even now, not after the last shred of his bloodline had turned against him.

It was Rosinante’s fault.

His brother had chosen the side of “ justice, ” chosen strangers over him. The fool had always been clumsy, but Doflamingo could have forgiven that. Foolishness was forgivable. Betrayal was not.

They had been born together in the glow of the Celestial Dragons’ halls and walked out together into the world’s gutter because of their foolish father. They had starved side by side, seen their mother fade, felt the mob’s stones crack against their skin. They had survived it together.

When Doflamingo shot their father to reclaim their pride, he thought the two of them would stand as gods again, brothers reborn in blood.

But he had lost Rosinante once that day. And when his little brother returned again years later, the boy he remembered had become a Marine spy wrapped in silence.

A traitor.

The thought gnawed at him until he slammed his hand against the desk, breath tearing through his throat.

Why… Why… WHY?

A porcelain vase shattered against the wall. Shards skittered across the floor, one skipping close enough to slice his cheek. A thin line of red bloomed there, hot and stinging. He did not wipe it away.

Doflamingo straightened slowly, panting, heart hammering a rhythm that mocked him. He told himself it was rage, only rage. Grief was for men too weak to act. He had done what needed to be done. Rosinante had forced his hand.

Still, his chest ached.

He pressed his fingers to his forehead and sat back in his chair, the leather creaking. The room seemed too quiet. His breath too loud.

Then came the sharp trill of a transponder snail.

'Purupurupuru… purupuru…' The transponder snail blinked from the corner of the desk, its eyes half-open as if it, too, knew better than to speak first.

He clicked his tongue and flicked his fingers. A thread coiled out, lifted the receiver, and the snail’s eyes flickered open. 'Gatchak.'

“ Fufufu… You’ve got a lot of nerve disturbing me- ” He stopped.

“ Oh? Bad time, Doffy? ” a voice purred through the line, light, teasing, edged like a blade. “ Someone sounds positively murderous. ”

He exhaled through his nose. You.

He should hang up. He should. But the voice belonged to one of the few people in the underworld whose usefulness outweighed their insolence. He swallowed the impulse to hang up. Business. You were business.

“ Hello? Cat got your tongue, bird? Bad day? ” You pressed.

He ground his teeth. The day had been an unending parade of failure; no Ope Ope no Mi, Law vanished, Rosinante dead by his own hand, and Crocodile ignoring his calls.

A bad day indeed.

“ Fufufu… You’ve gotten cocky, ” he said at last, letting his laughter roll out like smoke. “ I must be spoiling you. ”

“ You did set a meeting today, ” you reminded him. Your tone carried a lazy amusement that only half-hid the threat beneath. “ You’re the one who stood me up. No call, no message. I don’t enjoy being kept waiting. ”

Your voice cooled. “ Last time someone did that, they didn’t have wrists left to wear their watches. At least they now have an excuse to use. ” His fingers curled on the desk. How dare you. A hired killer speaking to him as if he were less than a god. He should have strung you up long ago, danced you like a marionette until you learned respect.

Then you laughed, a bright, cruel sound. “ You’re lucky you’re special, Doffy. So, any excuse? ”

He leaned back, the grin returning to his lips by instinct even as irritation flared beneath it. Special. The word stirred something he didn’t want to name.

And yet, the ache in his chest dulled for the first time all day.

“ Why don’t you come here, and we’ll catch up properly? ” he drawled. “ No sense wasting such a lovely mood over a missed appointment. ”

“ I’m already here, ” came the reply, almost smug. “ Your slimy lieutenant’s blocking the door. ”

From the corridor he heard Trebol’s nasal laugh, “ Behehehe! You think you can mouth off to me and live, girl? ”

“ Oi, back off, you're too close old man, ” you snapped faintly through the receiver.

Doflamingo pinched the bridge of his nose. “ Trebol, ” he said, voice flat. “ Let her in. ”

A pause, then the sound of Trebol’s reluctant shuffle.

The receiver clicked as he set it down. For a moment, he sat there in the dim office again, listening to the echo of his own laughter. The ache in his chest remained, buried under arrogance and noise.

Outside, footsteps approached the door, sure, unhurried. For a moment Doflamingo studied the blood on his cheek in the glass of the porthole. The cut had already stopped bleeding, leaving a thin crimson thread down his jaw. He smirked at his reflection.

By the time the door creaked open, the mask was in place again, white grin, glasses gleaming, composure absolute.

Inside, though, the sea still raged.

You entered without knocking, without hesitation, without a shred of shame, as if the ship, the room, the entire damn place belonged to you.

Still, as he leaned back in his chair and waited for you to speak, he found himself grateful for the interruption. You were a distraction. Nothing more. Something in his shoulders eased, so slightly that only he would notice.

“ It reeks in here, ” you said, wrinkling your nose. “ Of patheticness, to be exact. ”

You chuckled.

He almost frowned. He should have killed you for that. Or at least wanted to. But instead, his mouth curved, too slow, too deliberate.

“ Fufufu~ Cuidado, mariposa. ” His voice rolled low, laced with annoyance, but not anger. “ You’re fortunate that I like you. ”

“ Unfortunately, ” You tilted your head, eyes glinting. “ I don’t like you the same way or even as half as you think I do, Doffy. ”

That made him move. A shadow shifting from the chair, long, fluid, dangerous. He loomed over you, the air between you thickening until it pressed at your ribs. You stood your ground, though your chin had to tilt up to meet his gaze.

God, he was tall. You hated that. Hated how you had to crane your neck to look at him.

You noticed the streak of red cutting across his cheek. A small wound, but out of place on a man like him. It looked wrong, too human.

“ Hmm, ” you hummed, stepping closer.

His grin didn’t move, but his shoulders stiffened. You reached out, fingers hovering over the cut before brushing the blood away.

Then, just to see if he’d flinch, you brought your finger to your lips, tasting the metallic tang.

“ Disgusting, ” you said. “ Suits you. ”

Silence.

A laugh followed, low, raw, unraveling. “ Fufufufu… You really are insane, ” he murmured, the edge of it soft now, worn. “ You walk in here, insult me, touch me like you've got a death wish. ”

You smiled, leaning in. “ Maybe I do. ”

His grin widened," You're giving me more reasons why I should kill you. " The thought of having his hand around your throat as you writhe in pain was tantalizing.

" Pft, as if you ever could. " A low, dry sound rumbled in the back of your throat, a sound that barely qualified as amusement. It was not a genuine laugh that bubbled up from a light heart, but rather a cold, sharp thing, devoid of warmth or mirth.

Oh, if only you knew how easily he could prove you wrong. But he lets you believe otherwise, allows you the illusion of control, for now.

The muscles at the corners of your mouth tightened, pulling your lips into a thin, derisive line. Your eyes, which should have crinkled with shared humor, remained flat and assessing." So what had gotten you in a foul mood, Doffy? I'm curious. "

Your fingers traced the sculpted lines of his chest beneath his open shirt. The gesture flirted with desire, but there was no sweetness in it, only intrusion.

For whatever reason, Doflamingo finds himself drawn to it, to you. The corruption beneath your touch speaks to something within him, something just as toxic, just as hungry. It’s a strange kind of solace, to be undone by a poison that feels like understanding.

The grin faded from his face. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped and behind it was something dark and fragile, something that wasn’t meant to be seen.

Then he moved closer.

His hand shot forward, catching your wrist midair. Not tight, not threatening, just there. His palm was warm, trembling almost imperceptibly.

“ Don’t, ” he whispered.

You blinked. “ Don’t what? ”

“ Don’t move. ”

You frowned, confused. “ Don't tell me what to do. ”

He hesitated. The words came out quieter, broken at the edges. “ Stay still. ”

You didn’t speak. The silence stretched, heavy as smoke. Slowly, you let your free hand fall against his chest. His heart beat too fast, uneven, fighting itself.

The sound was quick and sharp, " Hah. " You scoffed. It was a sound of surprise, maybe even disbelief, quickly cut short.

A huff escaped him, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something loosened in the air.

He still hadn’t let go of your wrist. Instead, he guided your hand upward, settling it near his collarbone, his thumb brushing over your pulse. The gesture wasn’t possessive. It was grounding, desperate in its own strange way.

“ Stay, ” he said, finally. A single word, shaped like command but heavy with plea. “ Just… don’t leave yet. ”

The mask tried to stay in place, the smirk, the lenses, the godlike poise. But the man beneath was slipping through the cracks.

You tilted your head. “ Oh? Have I become an alternative for Crocodile? Let me guess, ignored again? ”

That earned a reaction. His expression faltered, the grin falling flat. For a fleeting second, he looked hurt. Not furious, not murderous, just…wounded.

You almost laughed at how absurd it was. Donquixote Doflamingo, the Joker, looking like a kicked dog.

“ Fine, ” you sighed. “ But I’m not cleaning up your mess. ”

That earned a real smile, faint, but real. “ Fufufu… No, mi mariposa, I wouldn’t dream of it. ”

His laugh came easier now. It rolled low and steady, stripped of the madness that used to lace every sound he made. It wasn’t the cruel, jagged cackle he wore like armor, it was quieter, rougher. When he pulled you closer, there was hesitation in the movement, as if he were testing not just the boundary between you, but something far more fragile. You let him.

His hand found its way into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a care that didn’t belong to a man like him. Each movement was slow, deliberate, not the grasp of a predator, but the trembling curiosity of someone who’d forgotten what gentleness felt like.

You could feel it in the way he touched you, not hunger, not violence, but the weary echo of someone who’d burned through every other emotion and was left with only exhaustion. How peculiar.

His breath hitched near your ear, unsteady. You wondered what he was looking for in that fleeting touch, warmth, maybe. Forgiveness, though he’d never admit it. Or perhaps he just wanted something to tether him before he slipped completely into the abyss he’d built for himself.

You tilted your head, studying him, the faintest smile curving your lips. “ Should I spoil you tonight? ” you asked, the words teasing, but your voice stayed soft, steady in the quiet, as if daring him to remember what tenderness was supposed to feel like.

He didn’t answer. He just exhaled, leaning down enough that the shadow of his grin brushed your hair. The tremor in his hand stilled, his breath evening out.

Outside, the sea lapped softly against the hull, the world quiet again, as if it, too, had decided to leave Donquixote Doflamingo alone for just one night.

You’d lost track of how long you’d been there.

The air in his office had changed, less suffocating now. The shattered glass had been swept aside. The wine bottle, half-empty, sat abandoned on the table between you.

Doflamingo leaned against the edge of his desk, glasses hanging lower on his nose. He looked….different. Not softer that would be impossible but quieter. The kind of quiet that comes after a storm, when everything is still standing, but only barely.

You took another sip from your glass, eyes never leaving him. “ You look like hell, Doffy. ”

He chuckled. “ Fufufu~ Coming from you, that’s rich. You look like hell dressed up for a party. ”

“ Funny, ” you said, swirling your drink. “ Most men would call me divine. ”

“Most men,” he drawled, pushing off the desk to stand before you, “ don’t know what divinity looks like. ”

You smirked. “ And you do? ”

He tilted his head, blond hair catching the low light. “ I’ve seen gods fall, mariposa. None of them laughed like you do. ”

You pretended to think about that. “ Maybe that’s because I’m the devil. ”

His grin widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Something darker lurked behind it, a shadow that made the smile both inviting and dangerous. “ Then we’re well matched, ” he said, voice low, deliberate, like a blade sliding over silk.

You rolled your eyes, setting the glass down with a careful clink, as if marking the boundary he dared not cross. “ You’re insufferable. ”

“ And you, ” he said, moving closer, the air bending around him, “ are still here. ”

You didn’t flinch as he closed the distance, didn’t step back when his hand brushed the edge of your jaw. It was too intimate for allies, too careless for enemies. A soft heat spread beneath your skin at the feather-light touch, and you knew it was intentional. Not affection, not outright threat, a challenge.

“ Careful, Doffy, ” you murmured, voice low, teasing, almost coaxing. “ People might start thinking you’ve gone soft. ”

“ Fufufu~ ” he breathed, leaning closer, his lips brushing against your ear. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down your spine. “ I’d rather they think I’ve gone mad. Madness… at least it has bite. ”

“ You already are,” you whispered, leaning toward him, your lips grazing the curve of his cheek, testing him. “ You’d know. You’re practically married to it. ”

A laugh escaped him this time, sharp, genuine, rough at the edges. It carried amusement, danger, and something unreadable beneath it. His hand slid down from your jaw, lingering at your throat, pressing with just enough weight to remind you of the power he wielded. Not to choke, not to claim, but to anchor the tension that now thrummed between you.

“ Don’t tempt me, mariposa, ” he said, voice soft, yet threaded with promise.

“ Or what? ” you countered, tilting your head, eyes glittering. “ You’ll kill me? ”

He hummed, slow and deliberate, a vibration that seemed to settle in your chest. “ No. That would be too easy. I’d keep you. Cage you in strings of my own making… weave you into something I could never let go. ”

You smirked, daring, leaning just enough to close the distance without touching. “ You know you wouldn’t. ”

“ I know, ” he admitted quietly, almost softly. The word hovered in the air between you, heavier than any threat, softer than any confession.

The silence that followed was thick and charged. Every movement, every breath felt deliberate, measured, intimate. The space between you trembled with unspoken truths, desire, challenge, something unnameable, fragile and sharp at the same time.

Finally, you exhaled, breaking the moment with a scoff that did little to disguise the rapid beat of your heart. He watched you, eyes dark, calculating, yet there was a softness in the glance he gave, fleeting, dangerous, and entirely his. And for once, in that careful balance of mockery and confession, you felt the weight of him, all of him, pressing close yet holding back, daring you to step further.

“ You really are pathetic tonight. ”

He grinned, the glint back in his glasses. “ Maybe. But you’re still here to see it. ”

You grabbed your coat from the chair, giving him one last look over your shoulder. “ Don’t flatter yourself. I just wanted to see the mighty Doflamingo sulk. ”

He laughed, low and dangerous. “ Careful. Keep staring, and I’ll start thinking you like me. ”

You shot him a smirk. “ Don’t hold your breath, birdman. ”

You turned for the door but he caught your wrist again, not rough, just deliberate. The same touch as before.

“ Next time, ” he said, voice quieter now, “ linger around a little longer, I like having the final word. ”

You looked at him, really looked. For a long moment, and the world of chaos, cruelty, and flamboyant madness that usually surrounded him faded into the background. You didn’t see the Joker, the man who laughed too loudly, who held the world in his hands and crushed it without a thought. You saw something else entirely: a man hollowed by loss, carrying a wound he refused to acknowledge, a grief he buried beneath layers of arrogance and performance. And yet, even through the bravado, the cracks were there, subtle, fragile, and achingly human. For once, he wasn’t untouchable. He was just a man, clinging to pretense while the ache of what he had lost still lingered quietly behind his eyes.

“ Maybe I will, ” you said softly. Then, with a grin, “ If you behave. ”

“ Fufufu~ Never. ”

You laughed, slipping free of his hand. “ Didn’t think so. ”

The sea whispered against the hull, steady, indifferent, as you left him standing there, a faint trace of your warmth still clinging to his palm.

The moment you slipped through the door, you shut it as quietly as you could. The faint click of the latch was almost comforting, a small reminder that you still had control over at least this one thing.

But when you turned, your relief evaporated. Trebol was there, standing just a little too close, his lanky frame looming in a way that made your skin crawl. “ Why… just why. ” you muttered, trying to mask the shiver that ran down your spine. You took a cautious step back, only to find his slimy, greasy arms sliding into your path, blocking any escape.

“ Neh, neh… where are you going? ” His voice was low, mocking, and as he leaned closer, the faint, unpleasant warmth of his breath brushed your skin. Your stomach churned. You pressed back instinctively. “ Don’t move any closer. I dare you, ” you hissed, though the words felt useless. In his twisted mind, dares were invitations, and the moment you spoke, you knew he’d take it. You could almost feel the slickness of him hovering against your cheek, a nauseating promise of intrusion.

“Why did you leave Doffy? You hadn’t… made him feel good yet,” Trebol murmured, and you could hear the insinuation dripping from each word.

You froze, wide-eyed, then exhaled, sharp and bitter. “Hah. What am I, a whore?”

“ Behehe, ” he chuckled, grinning in a way that made your skin crawl. “ You dress like one, might as well act like it. ”

A vein popped at your temple. If he weren’t part of the Joker’s so-called family, you would have thrown him into the sea without hesitation. Instead, you inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to slow your racing heart. Calm, you reminded yourself. Calm, because losing control would be far worse.

“ Doffy seems to like you, ” Trebol continued, his voice slithering along your nerves. “ I don’t… but if he desires it, well, I’ll make sure you stay by his side. ”

Your eyebrow twitched involuntarily. You wanted to lash out, to strike him down for daring to talk like that, but the rational part of you, the one still capable of thinking straight, stepped in. You took a slow, careful step forward, moving past him. His words continued, a low murmur that dripped with venom, about giving Doflamingo what he wants, about obedience, and about how you were nothing more than a tool in a game you hadn’t agreed to play.

“ But, ” Trebol called after you, voice sharp, cold, and mocking, “ the moment Doffy no longer wants you, we’ll throw you away. ”

Your pulse jumped. You froze for a split second, chest tight, before forcing yourself to push forward. One leap, one careful arc over the side of the platform, and you hit the sea. The cold splash startled you, but it was a reminder of freedom, no matter how small, as you climbed aboard your boat.

Trebol’s laugh lingered in your ears, sticky and mocking, echoing over the waves. You frowned, hands gripping the edge of the railing, letting the wind whip your hair around your face.

And then, as the boat drifted away, your thoughts inevitably turned to him. To the Joker. The one man whose name alone could twist your stomach into knots. The one man who would laugh if he knew the way your heart clenched every time you saw him, every time he smiled, every time he leaned a fraction too close to the leader of the Baroque Works. You hated that you cared. You hated that your chest ached, that your pulse betrayed you, that your mind clung to him when it would be far safer to let go.

But you would never let him know. Not a hint, not a whisper, not the slightest tremor. If he ever discovered the truth, he would use it against you, weaponize it with that cruel, playful precision he wielded like a master.

Tonight perhaps you’d been allowed a small victory. For a brief, fleeting moment, it had been you by his side, witnessing a sliver of vulnerability. You had seen him without the laughter that hid the ache, without the arrogance that shielded the cracks. For a heartbeat, it had been you.

And that was enough. For tonight, it would have to be enough.

Because you knew the danger of lingering. You knew that if you let yourself get too close, if you allowed your heart to lean into desire or hope, the fall would be catastrophic. The pit waiting at the bottom was too deep, too dark, too impossible to climb from.

So you breathed in the salt air, clenched your fists, and let the wind whip through your hair. Your eyes traced the horizon, endless and unyielding, and you forced yourself to be content with the fleeting, stolen moment.

Tonight, it was enough.

And tomorrow…tomorrow, you would sail farther from both danger and desire, even if a part of you would ache all the way.

The door closed with a click. The sound was small, almost delicate, but it echoed through the room like a shot.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

He just stood there, hand still half-raised, fingers brushing the air where your wrist had been. The warmth was fading already, like smoke slipping between his gloves.

He hated that.

He hated how it lingered, the feel of your pulse under his thumb, the taste of your mockery still humming in his head.

“ Fufufu… ” The laugh came out hollow, a habit more than a sound. “ I'm getting careless. ”

He turned back to the desk. The wine glass was empty. He poured another, watching the dark liquid swirl and shatter the candlelight into pieces. The room smelled of wax and dust and something faintly metallic.

He took a long sip. It burned all the way down.

It wasn’t enough.

His reflection in the glass caught his eye, the grin still there, painted on like a scar. He stared at it, at himself. The glasses gleamed, hiding everything. Hiding nothing.

“ Pathetic, ” he muttered.

Your voice echoed back in his head, bright and cruel and alive. ' It reeks in here. Of patheticness, that is. '

He almost laughed again. Almost.

He’d told himself once that attachment was weakness. That grief was a luxury for those who could afford to stop moving. He hadn’t stopped in years. Couldn’t. The moment he did, the past would catch him, the screaming, the fire, the betrayal. The boy who’d clung to his little brother in the ruins of their world.

Rosinante’s face flashed unbidden behind his eyes. The blood. The silence. The stupid smile.

The glass cracked in his hand.

He looked down, watching red seep through his hand where the shards bit into his skin. A drop rolled down his finger, dark against the pale leather.

He stared at it, the cut, the blood, the quiet ache in his chest that no amount of laughter could drown.

Slowly, he began to laugh again.

Low. Soft. Tired.

“ Fufufu… You’d think I’d have learned by now. ”

He set the glass down carefully this time, brushing his hand over the wound. A faint tremor ran through his fingers, irritation, exhaustion, something between.

He hated the quiet.

He hated what it left behind.

And yet, he didn’t call Trebol. Didn’t summon the Family. Didn’t move to fill the silence with orders or violence.

He just sat back in his chair, head tipping against the leather, and let the stillness settle.

Outside, the sea was calm again. The waves whispered against the hull, steady and indifferent.

He closed his eyes.

For one rare, fragile moment, Donquixote Doflamingo simply breathed.

And in the quiet that followed, he realized something terrifying.

He didn’t mind the smell of “ patheticness ” anymore.

Not tonight.

Because he wouldn't allow it again.

Mariejois.

The Holy Land, seat of the divine, cradle of the Celestial Dragons.

To dwell here is to stand among gods. To serve here is to kneel before them.

For those beneath the divine are but blemishes upon sanctity, detritus to be trodden upon, shaped, or discarded at whim. Such is the natural order decreed by heaven itself.

Yet even divinity is not without its masters.

Above the so-called gods stand those who serve the Will of The World, an order veiled from mortal eyes, known only to the chosen few.

They are the Knights of God, enforcers of the heavenly law, second only to the Five Elders.

And presiding over them, the supreme commander, the Saikō Shireikan, Figarland Garling.

It is he who guards the sanctity of the Holy Land, who ensures that even the divine remain obedient to the law of heaven.

His son, Figarland Shamrock, was destined to inherit that purpose.

In his earliest years, Shamrock devoted himself wholly to perfection. From the moment he could stand, he had been taught that perfection was not a virtue, it was a duty.

He rose with the first light, spoke only when spoken to, and carried himself with the measured grace of a prince ordained by heaven. His handwriting was immaculate, his diction flawless, his posture never less than pristine.

He was punctual. Precise. Studious.

And when his body trembled from exhaustion, he trained harder. When his voice cracked from recitation, he continued until the words no longer wavered.

A Figarland, he was told, did not tire. A Figarland did not falter.

Mediocrity was sin, And sin was unbecoming of divinity.

At the age of fifteen, his devotion finally earned his father’s attention. But not in the way he had imagined.

They dined in the Grand Hall of Ivory, at a table long enough to swallow their voices. Golden chandeliers burned with cold light overhead, their brilliance reflecting in the polished marble floor. The silence between father and son was so taut it seemed to hum.

Only the faint chime of silver against porcelain dared to speak.

“ I heard you’ve done well in your lessons, ” Garling said at last, his tone neither warm nor pleased, merely acknowledging fact.

Shamrock dabbed his lips with a white handkerchief, ensuring not a single blemish marred its purity. He placed his spoon down with meticulous care, not a clink, not a tremor.

“ Thank you, Father. ”

Garling’s response was a quiet scoff, sharp as glass.

“ That was not praise. Excellence is the bare minimum for a Figarland. I expect more. ”

At his subtle gesture, the attendants glided forward to clear the untouched dishes, their movements silent, reverent. The scent of the meal lingered for only a moment before it, too, vanished, erased, as if it had never existed.

“ My apologies, ” Shamrock murmured, bowing his head. “ I have misread your words. ”

“ You read too deeply into too little, ” Garling replied. “ What you’ve learned thus far is but the preface to true knowledge. ”

With another imperceptible signal, the great double doors swung open. A procession of servants entered, each bearing a gleaming silver tray crowned with a domed cloche. Their steps fell in perfect unison, the rhythm of a ritual practiced to divinity. When they lifted the lids, a delicate plume of steam ascended, fragrant, disciplined, ephemeral.

Garling’s eyes remained fixed on his son.

“ Your next lesson begins soon. ”

Shamrock nodded, steady and composed. Every motion, every breath, executed to perfection. But before the spoon could reach his lips, his father’s voice cut through the quiet.

“ You will enter the Akademiya next week, ” Garling declared. “ I expect nothing less than excellence. ”

The words struck like a blade drawn without warning.

The spoon slipped from Shamrock’s grasp, striking the fine porcelain with a clear, crystalline ring that echoed through the hall. In Mariejois, even sound could feel like sacrilege.

For a long moment, he could only stare at the fallen utensil, his reflection trembling in its silver curve.

The Akademiya.

The very thought soured his stomach.

He knew what awaited him there, the others. The so-called Celestial Dragons. His equals, as some would dare call them.

Children of privilege who strutted about as gods yet possessed not a trace of discipline nor grace.

They wallowed in their own comfort, draped in silk and perfume, feeding on luxury like insects drawn to rot. They paraded their lineage as if divine birth alone excused their idiocy.

Shamrock’s lip curled faintly. Average, every one of them, average gods.

They carried divine blood yet behaved like the very filth that served them.

To breathe the same air as such creatures was an offense.

“ Father, ” he began, keeping his tone carefully even, “ I am already advancing under private tutelage. I see no reason- ”

Garling’s gaze flicked toward him, cold, absolute.

The air froze.

“ When, ” his father said quietly, “ did I grant you permission to question me? ”

Each word fell like a hammer upon stone.

“ It was not a suggestion, ” Garling continued, rising with a slow, deliberate grace. “ It was an order. You will go. You will obey. And don't disappoint me. ”

He removed the napkin from his collar, folding it precisely before placing it beside his untouched plate. Then he turned and departed without another word. His footsteps echoed across the marble, sharp and final, until silence reclaimed the hall.

Shamrock did not move.

The meal before him, a masterpiece of culinary art, now smelled cloying and foul. The perfume of butter and spice hung in the air like decay.

He looked down at his hands, steady but tense, still feeling the faint tremor of the fallen spoon echoing through his bones.

Many years of discipline, and now this, a command to mingle with fools.

His jaw tightened, his breath drawing slow and measured.

“ Never.. ” he murmured, voice low but firm.

Never would he allow himself to be humiliated.

If he must endure that den of decadence, then he would not stoop to meet them, he would rise above them. He would remind them of what true nobility was meant to be: intellect, strength, and order.

He would show them that the Figarland name was not merely divine, it was superior.

For he was not like the others.

He was born higher.

And a Figarland does not kneel among insects who call themselves gods.

Shamrock had arrived at the prestigious Akademiya, with a mind sharpened by expectation and a temper honed by contempt. From the first moment he stepped into the marbled halls, he realized it was precisely as he had feared.

The students, children of Celestial Blood as he is, were every bit the parasites he imagined. Lazy. Obnoxious. Indifferent to learning. They lounged in the hallways, tossing scraps of gold-threaded napkins at one another, shouting across corridors, their laughter echoing off the polished walls like an insult. Not one paid attention to the teachers, nor did they bother to hide their disdain.

Of course, they could do as they pleased. They were gods.

The instructors were another matter entirely. Most were nothing more than slaves plucked from the lower worlds, humans, obedient and trembling, forced to labor as tutors and monitors. They flinched at every glance from a student, whispered apologies for accidental mistakes, and bowed so low it seemed their spines would snap. Shamrock’s eyes narrowed as he watched one timid man hastily clean a spilled cup of nectar while two students snickered nearby.

' Pathetic ', he thought, lips pressed into a thin line. ' If they had even a shred of sense, they would not cower before these children. '

The sheer stupidity of the system infuriated him. The teachers would be reprimanded for attempting discipline, and worse, the students were utterly unworthy of instruction. Why not employ other nobles instead? Why waste divine resources on slaves? When Shamrock had been tutored, disobedience had earned him correction and it had worked. Pain forged precision. Obedience cultivated excellence. Here, none of that mattered.

Shamrock’s gaze swept across the hallways, noting everything.

The building itself was magnificent, as was expected in Mariejois. Three floors of pristine white marble, inlaid with veins of gold and silver that gleamed under the divine light filtering through enormous windows. Expensive metals adorned the railings and doorframes, engraved with patterns that would have impressed even the most discerning artisan. Hallways were lined with paintings ancestral Celestial Dragons, heroic and terrifying, staring down at these modern heirs as if appraising the decay of their line.

Lounges lined the corridors, filled with velvet chairs and gilded tables where the lazy students lounged during breaks. The courtyard was a perfect garden of marble fountains, sculpted hedges, and ornamental trees. Classrooms were cavernous, outfitted with lavish desks and high ceilings. Even the food served at lunch was worthy of kings: roasted meats, imported fruits, pastries glazed with honey from distant worlds.

Yet all of it was wasted.

The students treated luxury as entitlement, not as privilege to be respected. They barked commands to their attendants, waved their hands dismissively at tutors, and brought human slaves from the lower worlds to carry their belongings, clean their spaces, or fetch food, all while laughing as if the servants were invisible. Shamrock’s chest tightened at each sight. Filth. Absolute filth. The idea of a commoner touching anything of his world or even existing in it, made his stomach twist.

And yet, he remained calm. Unlike impulsive brats like Saint Mosstard or whatever the green thing's name was, who might have erupted in anger or thrown a tantrum at the slightest affront of the fishes he drags around, Shamrock observed. He cataloged every flaw, every weakness, every display of arrogance and idiocy. His methods were precise, deliberate, diplomacy first, cruelty later if necessary. Beneath his serene exterior lurked a mind capable of measured, devastating manipulation.

He seated himself alone at a table during the first lunch period, spoon poised over food that would have nourished a king, yet he felt no desire to eat. Around him, students laughed and shouted, some dragging their lower-world attendants behind them like beasts of burden. Shamrock’s eyes followed each one with barely concealed disgust.

' So this is what passes for Celestial nobility, ' he thought. ' Indolent, spoiled, unworthy. And yet, they believe themselves divine. '

He allowed his lips to curl slightly, a predator’s smile more felt in thought than seen. These children, these average Celestial Dragons, had no understanding of power, no respect for order, no appreciation for bloodline. They were tools, nothing more, and Shamrock would ensure they remained in their place.

His pulse was calm, measured. His jaw tightened. Every nerve in his body hummed with quiet contempt.

And yet, he did not lash out. Patience was a weapon sharper than rage. Observation was power. He would bide his time.

For Shamrock was a Figarland. And a Figarland did not lower himself to mediocrity.

Not now. Not ever.

As he rose from the table, casting a single, imperious glance at the nearest misbehaving student, Shamrock silently promised himself one thing, when the time came, he would separate the wheat from the chaff. And the average would learn, one way or another, why even a god should bow to true authority.

Shamrock had made his mark at the Akademiya, not through boisterous displays or childish antics, but through the quiet, unyielding precision of his mind. Unlike the average Celestial Dragons who occupied the gilded halls around him, he did not squander his talents in idle chatter or petty competitions. Every word, every gesture, was calculated to convey authority without the slightest hint of vulgarity. He spoke in a tone that was measured, eloquent, and imperceptibly condescending, language far above the comprehension of most, leaving them to grasp only the polite surface while missing the subtle humiliations buried within.

It did not take long for the students to recognize his intellect. He became known as one of the sharpest minds in the Akademiya, capable of answering questions before they were fully asked and solving problems the teachers themselves would hesitate to approach. Teachers, many of them reluctant slaves, often treated him with cautious respect, aware that any misstep in his presence might draw a reprimand from the higher echelons of Marejois, itself.

Girls fawned over him. They whispered in clusters, offering small tokens of admiration, charms, even bribes, hoping for a smile or a word in return. He never gave them any. Never a glance lingered, never a single word encouraged them. To Shamrock, the displays were tedious and beneath consideration, and the attempt to purchase his attention was laughable.

One afternoon, a particularly persistent girl, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with what she surely thought was innocence, approached him and offered a delicate flower. The perfumed bloom rested in her hand as though it were a crown, an offering to the supposed glory of Shamrock Figarland. For a brief moment, something within him snapped.

He took the flower. Slowly. Deliberately. The girl’s hand trembled in anticipation, her breath held tight in the suspense of her own hope. Then, with a precision that matched the elegance of his lineage, he crushed it beneath his polished boot. The petals flattened into nothingness, the delicate stem snapping like twigs. The girl’s mouth opened in shock, a faint gasp escaping her before she fled, humiliated.

The hall buzzed instantly with whispers. Some girls whispered hate, others dared not even look at him again. The boys’ sneers were more direct, tinged with envy, irritation, and impotent rage. But Shamrock did not care. Not in the slightest. He had expected this. He had expected the weak admiration, the futile attempts at bribery, the petty indignations. None of it touched him.

Even so, he needed distance. The noise, the chatter, the whispers, the flustered stares, threatened to stir something in him that was unbecoming of a Figarland. He could feel the edge of his temper, the small desire to lash out further, and it took all his effort to restrain it. With composed, deliberate steps, he moved away from the crowd, retreating toward solitude where the mundane foolishness of his peers could not provoke him.

It was then that he saw the library.

Shamrock pushed open the heavy library doors, the oak groaning softly in protest. A hush washed over him, wrapping around his senses like a soft, thick cloak. Sunlight spilled through tall arched windows, casting long, golden slants across the polished wood floors and illuminating the rows of towering shelves, each packed with leather-bound tomes. The faint scent of old paper, wax, and polish lingered in the air, a library untouched by idle chatter or careless hands.

No average Celestial Dragon would dare set foot here. Shamrock could feel it in the reverent silence, in the weight of the atmosphere itself.

He exhaled, a slow, quiet release of tension. Finally, a space free from the constant noise, the flattery, the bribes, the incessant, suffocating attention.

Then he saw you.

A young girl, roughly his age, kneeling on the floor, your movements precise and deliberate as you scanned a row of books. Shamrock groaned under his breath. ' Even here? Must I suffer company everywhere I go? '

He moved to a table at the farthest corner, deliberately creating distance, setting a perimeter around himself. You didn’t look up, you seemed completely absorbed in your task. Shamrock allowed himself a scoff, low and dismissive. ' Probably using the books as a chair or some idiotic prop, pretending to study like a child playing at scholarship. '

The silence began to settle, soothing his frayed nerves. He picked up one of his own personal volumes, “ Mariejois Codex: Laws, Authority, and the Forbidden Secrets. ” A Firgarland archive, not meant for the eyes of ordinary Celestial Dragons. He flipped it open carefully, enjoying the familiar weight and the faint crackle of old pages.

Then, unexpectedly, you spoke.

“ Excuse me, ” your voice was soft, yet precise, formal in tone, almost ceremonious. “ The book you hold… does it address the laws within Mariejois? ”

Shamrock froze, a faint twitch of surprise crossing his features. Why would an average be interested in this book? ' Is she trying to strike up a conversation? ' The contents were evident from the title, yet you had clearly seized the moment to speak. ' A tactic where you act curious to grab someone's attention, the oldest trick in the book. Predictable. '

He allowed a faint, condescending smile to form. “ You may find, ” he said deliberately, “ that this book contains nothing you are capable of understanding. ” He withheld the title, expecting her to falter, to shrink back.

Instead, you straightened, spine perfectly poised, eyes calm and unwavering. Your voice, when you spoke, carried the weight of studied knowledge, each word deliberate, almost noble in phrasing:

“I am aware that the Celestial Dragons exist above the law, yet still tolerate prohibited practices, including slavery. The D's are regarded as the gravest threat to justice, and communities that harbor them are liable. Revealing the existence of Imu is punishable by execution, except for the Five Elders and the Knights of God. And so.. I would like to borrow the book.”

Shamrock’s eyes widened. Knowledge of Imu, the Great One, forbidden even to most Celestial Dragons. Shock surged first, quickly followed by suspicion, intrigue, and a sharp spike of confusion. ' Who is she? How does she know this? '

He leaned slightly forward, voice steady yet edged with an unmistakable authority. “ If you are indeed so well-informed… I must ask, what is your family name? ”

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. Your tone was calm, even teasing, as though daring him to challenge you. “ If you wish to know my name, ” you replied, “ it's proper etiquette you offer yours first. ”

Shamrock’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying you. The weight of curiosity pressed against him, an unfamiliar tension. You were no ordinary pupil.

The book remained firmly in his hands, Firgarland property, meant for no one else. Yet, faced with this girl’s knowledge and unwavering poise, he felt an unusual pull; a mix of caution, fascination, and reluctant admiration. The encounter was far from ordinary, and whatever secrets you carried could prove more consequential and dangerous than he could yet comprehend.

“ Figarland. Figarland Shamrock, ” he said, his tone carefully measured, tinged with a light, smug arrogance.

Your frown was immediate, sharp, almost imperceptibly quizzical. Your lips pressed into a thin line, and for a heartbeat, Shamrock thought he saw the tiniest spark of irritation or perhaps assessment, in your eyes.

“ Ah. My apologies, ” You said quickly, bowing slightly with impeccable grace. “ Forget I ever spoke with you. Forgive me for wasting your time. ”

Before Shamrock could respond, you rose smoothly to your feet, your movements quiet, deliberate, almost predatory in their precision. You disappeared between the shelves like a shadow slipping through sunlight, leaving Shamrock frozen in place, his pulse quickened by shock, lingering curiosity, and a strange, reluctant respect.

The library, once a sanctuary, now felt suddenly heavy with unanswered questions.

The day’s lessons had ended, yet Shamrock could not shake the image of the you from his mind. Your movements had been precise, almost ritualistic, each motion deliberate as if every gesture carried weight. Your voice, calm and unwavering, had commanded attention without raising in volume, and most unsettling of all was the forbidden knowledge you had displayed, the secrets of the Great One himself. Shamrock had felt a jolt, equal parts fear and fascination, when you spoke. Even now, in the solitude of his chambers, the memory of your words echoed sharply, cutting through the lingering sense of accomplishment he had felt that day. He could not, and would not, let them go.

His steps were measured as he approached his father, Garling, who sat at the massive mahogany desk in the study. The man’s presence filled the room; every detail of his posture, the straight back, the firm press of shoulders, the long, deliberate movements as he scanned his reports, screamed authority. Garling hummed softly, the tune familiar but distant, like a shadow of some long-forgotten melody. Shamrock paused, taking a moment to steady himself before clearing his throat.

“ Father, ” he began, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of urgency, “ I have encountered someone today at the library. ”

Garling’s gaze remained fixed on the reports before him, though a subtle shift betrayed his awareness of Shamrock’s tone. “ And why would this encounter merit my attention? ” he asked, his words smooth, measured, but with an edge of curiosity that sharpened as he spoke.

Shamrock leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “ A young girl, roughly my age. She knows things she shouldn’t. About Mariejois, the laws, and even about the Great One himself. ”

For a moment, Garling’s pen hovered over the page as his eyes flicked up to meet his son’s. A brow arched, eyes narrowing. “ That’s impossible. Ordinary Celestial Dragons do not possess knowledge of the Great One, ” he said, the words clipped, precise, yet betraying a flicker of disbelief. He tapped the reports in front of him with long, deliberate fingers, as if the rhythmic sound might help him process what he had just heard. After a pause, his expression softened ever so slightly, though the intensity in his eyes remained. “ Some children of other God Knights attend the Akademiya as well, ” he continued, leaning back in his chair, weight resting heavily on its polished wood. “ Your classmates are not all heirs of ordinary houses. Some of them… will one day serve under you. ”

Shamrock’s attention sharpened at his father’s words. “ And this girl? ” Garling asked, voice carrying that subtle curiosity again, though tinged with caution.

Shamrock lowered his voice further, his mind replaying every detail of the encounter as if trying to reconstruct your essence from memory. “ She had… presence, ” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “ Authority beyond her years. The way she spoke… it was as if she were asserting her rights, even in a place where she ought to have no claim. And… she had a pair of horns. Distinct, sharp, unnatural. Not something I’ve seen among the usual pupils. ”

The reaction was immediate. Garling clicked his tongue sharply, the sound cutting through the room like a whip. His eyes darkened, the hum of the study vanishing entirely. He leaned forward, elbows planted firmly on the desk, fixing Shamrock with a look that carried both warning and the weight of memory. “Horns, you say?” His voice was low, deliberate, edged with a sharpness that hinted at old grievances. “ A Satchel. ”

Shamrock frowned, puzzled. “Satchel?”

Garling’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “ The Satchels, ” he said slowly, each word heavy with contempt. “ I had entrusted a mission to one of them, Maffey, but she failed me. Cost me more than I care to recount. I would have had two exceptional sons at my side if it were not for her failure. Two sons to command, to carry on my legacy… and yet I was left with only one. ”

Shamrock felt a sharp pang of envy. The mention of a twin, Shanks, stirred something raw within him: resentment, and a determination not to be overshadowed, not to be doubted. His fists clenched briefly, a flash of indignation crossing his expression. He could feel the quiet fire of ambition and jealousy thrumming in his veins. He almost scowled at the unfairness, the thought forming that he alone would prove worthy of his father’s favor. But he tamped down the emotion, unwilling to reveal any weakness in front of Garling.

His thoughts drifted back to the you. Suddenly, everything fell into place: the poise, the precision, the knowledge you had wielded like a weapon, the confidence in your posture, it all stemmed from the shadow of your family name, one of the bloodlines of Knights of God. Shamrock’s lips curved slightly, a mixture of admiration and wariness coloring his expression. “ She is clever, ” he admitted, his voice carefully neutral, yet carrying the faintest undercurrent of respect. “ More clever than she has any right to be at her age. ”

Garling’s eyes narrowed further, the weight of his gaze pressing down like the edge of a blade. “ Cleverness alone is not enough, ” he said slowly, each word measured, precise. “ Keep an eye on her, Shamrock. Observe her, learn what she knows… and do so without revealing your own hand. Discretion is your ally. Appearances are everything in this world, and sometimes, silence is more powerful than words. ”

Shamrock nodded, letting his father’s words settle over him like a cloak of strategy. “ I will, ” he said, voice firm, measured, but inside, his mind raced. He was already replaying the encounter, every syllable, every gesture, every subtle inflection of your voice. He imagined how you moved among the other students, and how he could anticipate your next move.

Garling returned to his reports, his humming resuming as though nothing had changed, but the air in the room had shifted. Shamrock lingered for a moment, letting the memory of the your horns, your precise movements, and the intensity in your gaze imprint itself deeper into his mind. You are one of those who will serve under his command in the near future. He knew it instinctively. And somehow, in the depths of his ambition and calculation.

With that thought heavy in his mind, Shamrock left the study, each step measured, deliberate, as if already planning the first moves of a silent, intricate game that had just begun.

The World Government was never so naive as to place its faith wholly in pirates. Not even when they wore the title Warlord of the Sea. Alliances with men and women of that breed were not forged out of trust, but necessity, a bargain struck between power and control. And so, in their infinite caution, the Government conceived a safeguard: for every Warlord, there would be a watcher. A shadow sanctioned to observe, to report, and, if need be, to remind these monsters where their chains lay buried.

That shadow, for the coming year, would be you.

The letter arrived at dawn, sealed in thick red wax, the crest of the World Government gleaming faintly in the low light of your quarters. Its paper was heavy, expensive, the kind of stationery reserved for orders that did not tolerate refusal. You broke the seal with a gloved thumb and read slowly, each word deliberate and cold.

You are hereby assigned as the observer to one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. Mission: Ensure compliance with the terms of allegiance. Duration: One year. Nature: Observation only. Subject: Dracule Mihawk. Do not engage.

You read that last line twice. Do not engage. It struck you less as a warning and more as a challenge, as if the ink itself doubted your restraint.

For a moment, you allowed yourself a smile. Engage, it said. Do not engage. The words pulsed like a heartbeat under your skin, and you could almost hear your own voice whispering, We’ll see.

Excitement was a dangerous thing for a Cipher Pol agent, but you’d never been particularly good at smothering it. After all, it wasn’t every day you were sent to shadow a man like Dracule Mihawk, the world’s greatest swordsman, a living legend draped in solitude and blood.

Your work had always been in the quiet places, disguise, observation, infiltration. You were not one of those agents who danced through the chaos of open battle, blades drawn and names shouted into the wind. You preferred stillness. The patience of the unseen. You had built your reputation on clean execution and absolute results. In the field, you were the whisper before the storm, never the thunder.

So when your name was chosen for this assignment, you’d seen the surprise on your supervisor’s face. His mouth had curled with disdain, a man choking on the bitterness of his own mediocrity. He’d handed you the mission file as though it were a personal insult, his fingers stiff, his eyes gleaming with something venomous. You took the folder anyway, letting your hand brush his just long enough to make him flinch. He recoiled as though burned.

“ Tsk ” he’d clicked his tongue, not that you cared.

You’d only grinned, sharp and wordless, your silence its own kind of cruelty.

He hated that about you, the way you carried yourself without apology, the way you made competence look effortless. Once, he’d tried to sabotage a mission of yours, some petty attempt to prove you mortal. Instead, it had been his failure that nearly reached headquarters first. Since then, he’d stewed in his own jealousy, waiting for your fall.

As he turned away that day, muttering about “ consequences ” when you returned, his tone making the word sound like reprimand, you’d simply stepped past him and slammed the door. It caught him square in the shoulder, and his bark of pain was almost satisfying. The others in the corridor looked up, but none said a word. They were used to it, used to you.

A spotless record buys a certain kind of freedom in Cipher Pol. And you had earned every ounce of it.

In your quarters, the morning light slid across the walls, catching on your sparse belongings; a worn travel coat, a small chest of personal effects, and a single polished dagger laid neatly on the desk. You packed without hesitation, the movements practiced, mechanical. No hesitation. No sentiment.

Missions were not homes; they were bridges, and bridges were meant to be crossed, not kept.

As you shut the final clasp on your case, you paused for a single breath. The air tasted faintly of salt, the sea wind creeping in from the harbor below. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, waited Dracule Mihawk. The man with eyes like a predator’s and patience like death itself.

Your orders were clear. Observation only.

But clarity and obedience had never been the same thing.

You slipped on your coat and left the room without looking back.

By the time your ship vanished into the fog, Kuraigana Island had already swallowed the horizon.

The world here was nothing but gray; gray sea, gray sky, gray stone. The mist clung to everything like an old memory that refused to die. Even the air carried weight, thick and stagnant as though the island itself resented intrusion.

Your boots sank slightly into the damp soil as you disembarked, the sound muffled. You could barely make out the jagged silhouette of the ruined castle ahead, its towers half-collapsed and draped in vines that looked black against the pale haze. The structure loomed above the cliffside like a relic carved from grief.

You had read about this place once. The Muggy Kingdom, long dead, long forgotten. A land drowned by war until nothing remained but the ghosts of stone and the echo of crows. The few historical fragments left in Cipher Pol’s archives spoke of endless rain, of a climate so foul that even the soil seemed to rot.

You drew in a breath, regretted it immediately. The air tasted old, heavy with salt and decay. You almost laughed. ' No wonder they called it “ Muggy. ” '

A single thought drifted unbidden through your mind, absurd and yet strangely fitting.

Is Mihawk even human?

The fog was thick enough to turn the castle into a mirage, flickering between presence and absence with every step you took. You tilted your head, taking in the atmosphere, and the thought escaped before you could stop it.

“ This place feels like something out of a horror novel. ”

You huffed, half amused. “ What’s next, a vampire? ”

The irony wasn’t lost on you. In a world where men could split mountains and cause a quake by breaking through the air itself, why not a vampire or two? You almost wanted to believe it. The gothic setting, the stillness, the unholy quiet, it all played the part too well.

You laughed softly at yourself, shaking away the thought. The sound carried faintly, swallowed by the fog. Hands laced behind your head, you strolled down the fractured path with the loose ease of someone unconcerned with danger. It had been too long since you could walk this freely, without the weight of another mission pressing down on your back or the droning voice of your superior nitpicking your every breath.

Maybe being a watcher wouldn’t be so dreadful. A year of quiet. Solitude. Perhaps even peace.

That was when the forest breathed.

A faint crack broke the stillness.

Your head turned slightly, though your pace didn’t falter. Your eyes darted across the dense white veil of fog. The wind had gone still. No rustling leaves, no bird calls, only the low rhythm of your own footsteps.

Then again. Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. Not your own.

You stopped humming.

The corner of your mouth twitched. So much for peace.

Your hands fell from behind your neck. Without a sound, you pivoted.

“ Shave. ”

In a blink, you vanished from the path, reappearing behind the shadow that had trailed you. Before the creature could react, the fine silver glint of a needle flashed between your fingers. You drove it neatly into the exposed flesh of its neck.

It let out a strangled hiss before crumpling to the ground.

You crouched beside it, pushing aside the matted fur and coarse features. The sight that met you was unmistakable.

“ A Humandrill? ” you murmured, frowning. “ That’s unexpected. ”

You’d read of them too, creatures capable of mimicking human behavior, intelligent enough to wield weapons. But they rarely attacked without reason. And yet this one had stalked you like prey.

The mist shifted. Leaves whispered. More movement.

You clicked your tongue quietly. “ Of course. ”

You weren’t built for prolonged combat, not against a troop. Espionage, infiltration, subtle kills, those were your strengths. Open battles were for the muscleheads in Cipher Pol 9.

Your hand slipped into your pocket, fingers brushing the hidden case of fine-tipped needles you always carried. You counted without looking.

Eleven… twelve…

A deeper sound rumbled through the fog. Something large. Heavy. You rose to your feet slowly, eyes narrowing as a towering figure emerged from the gray.

Another Humandrill, no, not just another. This one was massive, and in its hand it carried a blade, a sword so pale and polished that it reflected the gloom like a mirror.

You exhaled, half a laugh. “ You’ve got to be kidding me. ”

Even the animals here were armed.

Still, you readied your stance, weight shifting lightly onto your back foot. Twenty-one needles left, you calculated. Enough to create distance, not enough to win. The plan was simple: strike, confuse, retreat. Tactical withdrawal.

You took a breath, then stopped.

Something changed.

The Humandrills’ snarls faltered. The larger one’s grip trembled. Their eyes widened, faces twisting into raw terror.

Before you could move, they broke. One by one, they turned and fled into the fog.

The silence that followed was complete. The kind that made your skin crawl.

Then came the voice.

“ I expected more from a Cipher Pol agent. ”

The tone was smooth, low, and entirely unimpressed.

“ How disappointing. ”

Your gaze snapped upward.

He was sitting atop a fallen wall, legs crossed, a glass of red wine balanced elegantly between his fingers. The crimson liquid caught the dim light like blood against the gray. His coat draped over the stone, the brim of his hat shadowing eyes that gleamed a predatory gold.

Dracule Mihawk.

You froze, not out of fear, but awe. You hadn’t even felt him arrive.

That fact alone made your pulse quicken.

He regarded you in silence for a moment, expression unreadable. His gaze moved over you like the edge of a blade, precise, detached, cutting without effort.

“ Consider yourself fortunate, ” he said at last, “ that I bothered to meet you at all, Government Watcher. ”

The words carried no malice. No warmth, either. Just fact. His voice was smooth like a swordsman’s draw before the strike.

“ I am to tolerate your presence, ” he continued, “ nothing more. ”

You studied him, every detail committed to memory. The restraint in his posture, the arrogance veiled as indifference, the quiet confidence of someone so utterly sure of his own supremacy. Prideful. Detached. Bored. Intimidating.

You almost smiled.

You bowed, slight but deliberate. “ And I am to survive yours, ” you replied softly.

A faint smirk crossed your lips, gone as quickly as it came.

If the comment amused him, he didn’t show it. Mihawk’s gaze lingered a heartbeat longer, then shifted away. With a fluid motion, he gestured toward the path winding deeper into the mist.

At the end of it stood the gates of the castle, massive, ancient, half-swallowed by shadow.

Without another word, he turned and walked.

You followed.

The silence between you stretched thin, broken only by the echo of your footsteps across the broken stones. The fog parted reluctantly before him, as though even the air acknowledged his passage.

Inside, the castle was colder than you’d imagined. The air reeked faintly of dust and iron. Crows nested in the high rafters, their cries harsh and echoing. The grand hall yawned before you, marble cracked, windows shattered, chandeliers dark and skeletal.

“ This place could use a little hospitality, ” you muttered under your breath.

Mihawk’s voice drifted back, calm and effortless. “ There are empty rooms. Choose whichever doesn’t echo too much. ”

And with that, he was gone.

No footsteps. No sound. Just absence, clean and absolute.

You stood alone, surrounded by the weight of centuries and silence.

The stillness pressed against you, thick and suffocating. You glanced up at the shattered glass where the light failed to enter, and the distant shape of a crow tilted its head, watching you.

You sighed, half a laugh, half resignation. “ Great, ” you murmured. “ No vampire. Just a man who looks like one and has less hospitality. ”

The crow cawed once, as if in agreement.

You looked toward the endless corridors of the castle and thought, A year of this.

You weren’t sure whether to laugh again or start praying.

The first night inside Mihawk’s castle was colder than the mist outside.

Stone drank the heat from your bones as if the walls were patient mouths, and the room, vast, high-ceilinged, and almost aggressively empty, offered no refuge. Silence here wasn’t an absence of sound so much as a presence: it filled space and pressed against your ears until even breathing felt obscene. You set your bag down on a low table and the hollow thud echoed off the far wall, chased itself through corridors of shadow, and died somewhere you could not see.

You stood for a long while watching a single candle. Its flame bent and sighed in the draft, a tiny, obstinate thing trying to be light in a place that had forgotten how to keep warmth. No servants answered. No scuffed boots gave presence to the corridors. No distant door slammed in annoyance, the usual soundtrack of life and authority you’d grown used to in Guanhao. Only the low, constant wings of crows, a slow tide of black noise that circled the turrets and never seemed to sleep.

Compared to the barracks, this room was paradise and prison at once. They said the barracks’ metal bunks improved posture; you knew the truth: no one soft-cushions a weapon. Here, there were no orderly inspections, no officious superiors to needle you. There was only the castle and you, and however liberating that felt, it had the same sharp edge as an unguarded blade.

You moved to the window and perched on the sill, feet tucked beneath you. Outside, the battlements were ragged teeth against the fog, ruins that might have once been defiant and were now merely patient. The sea beyond was a sliver of dull silver, restless and unreachable, its breath far away enough that it might as well have been legend. The air smelled of iron and old rain, it carried the mildew of memory and a hint of something else, tannin and dust, the scent of wine warmed by a palm you had not met.

Dracule Mihawk rose into your thoughts with the weight of his name. Strongest Swordsman in the World. It sounded like a verdict pronounced at a funeral: short, final, irreversible. You found the title fitting. There had been no bluster when you met him, only the simple fact of him. He did not have to prove himself with clanging bravado, his presence rearranged the room. It was as if gravity slightly shifted toward him and kept everything in better order: birds flew differently, shadows fell truer, people remembered their smallness.

A frown tugged up at your features. You had an uncomfortable certainty, irrational and sharp, that he could sense you here in this chamber of hollow echoes as easily as one might sense a grain of dust in sunlight. The thought was unnerving, the kind that left the back of your neck prickling for reasons you could not parse into neat reports.

The candle guttered. You turned because you always turned when the world changed its breath. It wasn’t a draft this time. It was a presence, subtle, precise like the edge of a blade tracing the air behind you before the mind knew to flinch.

“ Seriously, ” you murmured to the empty room, amusement and a measure of annoyance in one short sound.

Your fingers eased to the seam of your pocket, feeling for the cold metal of needles that loved silence as much as you did. No sound answered but the drum of your pulse, steady as the tide. You listened for other things, the settling of stone, the loose shutter in a forgotten tower and then a small, unmistakable clink came from beyond your open door. Wine on stone. Glass meeting wood. It was a deliberate noise, polished like everything you had noticed about him. Composed, meant to be heard.

You did not have to see him to know it was Mihawk.

“ If you plan to watch, watch silently, ” you called, keeping your tone level, professional. There was an edge to the words, protocol thinly veiling irritation.

Footsteps answered. Slow, amused, and then retreating as if the owner of the steps had decided you were only worth the small test. A low hum, something like a laugh held under water brushed the air and faded down the corridor.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. A smirk threatened, you let it. Of course he was testing you. Of course he was measuring you against some invisible scale he carried around in his head. ‘ It would be rude, otherwise ’ you thought, and the thought came with a flash of pleasure.

You sank back into the chair and folded your hands, watching the candle’s light shiver on the table. The fog outside swallowed the horizon and the crows stitched the darkness with shrill stitches of sound. Inside, the castle breathed with slow, patient inhales, and after the first watchful shock faded, a peculiar calm took root. An animal calm. You recognized it, focus, the same tightness in your chest you felt before an operation when all contingencies were cataloged and stacked.

“ This is how it will be, ” you murmured to yourself, and meant the observation both ways. You had come to watch a man reputed as the edge of a blade but already the scales felt reversed sometimes as if you were the specimen in a glass jar he inspected with casual fingers. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he liked watching prey pace and plan. Or perhaps he was simply bored and delighted in small theatrics. Either explanation suited him. Both explanations suited you.

You had been sent with one instruction repeated like a prayer: Do not engage. The phrase had the frosty sanctity of an oath. You could imagine the World Government’s faces as they handed down the order some earnest, some fearful, all precise in their paranoia. You read the line and heard the intention. Keep the chain unbroken, keep the terms intact, do not let legend and state collide into chaos.

You smiled at the thought of compliance and then decided to be disobedient in the smallest, cleverest way possible. Feigning ignorance was a gentle deceit you had practiced for years, it was comfortable, familiar armour. It would allow you to poke the man just enough to see how razor-thin his patience was without breaching the explicit clause that could cost your head.

You thought of the tests already. The clink of glass, the deliberate withdrawal of a presence to stir your nerves. You would return them in kind. A misplaced book, a candle left where it shouldn’t be, questions asked with too much casualness. Small provocations were safe, they yielded truths without bloodshed.

“ One year, ” you whispered into the dim, the words more syllable than plan. “ We’ll see who watches whom. ”

The candle shivered and held. Beyond the window, the crows argued with the moon. Somewhere in the castle, the faint scrape of metal Mihawk’s sword, perhaps kissed a wooden frame. It sounded like a promise.

You rose, walked to the table, and opened your satchel. Paper, ink, the neat fold of cipher slips ready for transmission. Your hands moved with the company of old ghosts practiced muscles doing work you no longer thought about until you started. You began to write the first line, but not the one the Government expected. You wrote what you had seen, yes, gray stone, crows, the glass set down just beyond your door but you also wrote a smaller truth.

He notices everything. So will I.

You sealed the slip and tucked it away in a hidden pocket. It was both a report and a vow. If Mihawk would study you with that surgical indifference then you would return the favor, not openly, not in the way those clumsy superiors expected but with the quiet violence of observation. You would be a nettle at his sleeve, an itch he could not simply ignore. If they forbade engagement, you would instead become irritation, persistent, intelligent, and amusing enough to earn his attention.

The crows called. The candle threw long, patient shadows across the stones. Outside, the mist kept its secrets like a closed fist. Inside, you set the empty glass at the edge of the table out of place, deliberately so and let your booted heel drag across the floor in a listening rhythm as you left the room, closing the door with a soft click that might have been a challenge.

You did not sleep well that night. When you finally did drift toward a thin, watchful dream, your final waking thought was neither fear nor reverence but something sharper: curiosity. Mihawk’s eyes had angles you could not read yet, and there was a pleasure in that not the gratitude of a humbled subordinate, but the hungry delight of someone unraveling a knot. You would not simply obey “ Do not engage. ” You would engage where it had the most consequence; in his mind, in his routine, in that brittle place where pride met habit.

You would prod, poke, and persist.

A year was long. The castle was patient. You had needles and notes and an irritation you intended to sharpen into art. The watcher became a provocation by degrees, and you, who had never failed a mission, found your new task delicious.

So you decided, then and there, to feign ignorance and to press the buttons you were told never to touch.

Day One.

The first morning began long before the sun dared to touch Kuraigana. When you stepped into the courtyard, the fog had yet to lift, and there he was already moving.

Dracule Mihawk’s silhouette carved itself against the colorless dawn, all sharp edges and effortless grace. He didn’t train like a man; he moved like a metronome of death, unhurried. Yoru’s black edge cut through the air, the hum of its passage almost reverent. Each swing was perfect, unbroken, not a single motion wasted. It wasn’t strength he displayed, it was mastery refined into ritual.

Afterward, he drank his morning wine with the same care one might give prayer. He tended the small, stubborn patch of green that passed for a garden on this forsaken island. He read. He walked. He said nothing.

And you, Cipher Pol observer, ghost in the corner of a legend’s life, watched.

Always watching. Always recording.

At first, you thought the silence would consume you whole. The castle was too big, too hollow. Every footstep came back to you twice, whispering through the corridors like a reminder that you didn’t belong. But as the hours unspooled, you began to understand it wasn’t emptiness that filled the air, it was control.

The silence was his dominion. He ruled it absolutely.

And you hated it.

You broke it before sunset.

“ Do you ever get lonely? ” you asked, your voice soft, a pebble dropped into the still pond of his composure.

He didn’t look up from his book. “ No. ”

“ Ever? ”

He turned a page, the sound sharp. His gaze, those strange, golden eyes, lifted. “ You? ”

You hesitated, lips twitching. “ I don’t have time for loneliness. ”

“ That, ” he murmured, quiet as the scrape of steel, “ is not the same as not feeling it. ”

You scowled before you could stop yourself. “ That’s cheating. I’m supposed to be observing you. ”

“ Then observe quietly. ”

So you tried. You really did.

For a while.

Day Four.

By the fourth day, the silence between you had settled into something almost companionable thick and unbroken like fog clinging to the fields. He wasn’t unfriendly, exactly but his words came rarely, carefully as if each one cost him something to part with. You, on the other hand, had grown restless. So you made a game of it, seeing how many words you could coax out of him before dusk fell.

You started with the smallest bait. “ Do you ever name your cabbages? ” you asked, leaning on the fence, pretending to study the rows of pale green heads as though you truly cared for the answer.

He didn’t even glance up. “ No. ”

One word. Progress, of a sort.

You tapped the fence post, considering your next move. “ What about the crows? ” you ventured. “ Surely you’ve given them names. They seem like the sort of creatures who demand it. ”

That earned you a look briefly, assessing, like a man deciding whether the conversation was worth the breath. “ Do you? ” he asked at last.

You smiled. “bI named one Monsieur Baku. ”

He stared at you for a long moment, the faintest crease of confusion or amusement, you couldn’t tell. He blinked once, slow and deliberate and turned back to his wine as if the exchange had been a figment of your imagination.

You sighed and tipped your head back to watch a crow wheel lazily over the vineyard. One word today, two yesterday. At this rate, you thought, you might get a sentence out of him by winter.

Day Seven.

You caught him training again that morning, Yoru cleaving through the mist like a dark comet. It was artistry masquerading as violence, terrifying and beautiful in equal measure. You watched for a while, lips curving, and then because you had the self-control of a fuse.

“ So… do you ever cut your hair with that thing, or- ”

Steel stopped an inch from your face. You blinked, grinned. “ I’ll take that as a no. ”

He exhaled, something between irritation and amusement, before resuming his forms.

“ Noted, ” you said under your breath. “ Personal grooming: off-limits. ”

Later, you found him in the garden again, glass of wine in hand, the afternoon sun weak and gold. You dropped into the seat across from him, uninvited, biting noisily into an apple.

“ Why are you here? ” he asked eventually, tone flat as stone.

“ Officially? To make sure you’re following the Warlord Treaty. ”

“ And unofficially? ”

You smiled around another bite. “ To annoy you, apparently. ”

A pause. “ You excel at it. ”

“ I aim to please. ”

He set his glass down with surgical precision. “ Then aim elsewhere. ”

You leaned back, grinning. “ But then who’ll keep you company, Hawk Eyes? ”

“ The silence was sufficient. ”

“ So you admit I’m an upgrade. ”

He didn’t answer, but the quiet that followed wasn’t the same as before. It was heavier, yes but alive.

And that, you thought, was victory.

Day Nine.

By now, you have learned Dracule Mihawk could disappear more quietly than a shadow, and he didn’t appreciate off-key singing.

You tested both discoveries repeatedly.

Halfway through a particularly horrid rendition of Binks’ Sake, his voice slipped behind you like the cold edge of a blade. “ If you value your throat, you will stop. ”

You turned, smiling too brightly. “ Observation requires pushing limits. ”

He said nothing. Just stared, long enough for silence to press on your chest.

And yet, you swore, the corner of his mouth twitched before he turned away.

You logged it as a success.

Evenings were stranger. You’d find him sitting in that dimly lit hall, gaze lost somewhere beyond the flicker of candlelight, the half-filled glass of wine untouched beside him. He looked neither lonely nor content, just distant, like someone standing on the other side of a memory.

You told yourself not to care. But it gnawed at you all the same.

Once, he caught you watching. “ What are you staring at? ”

You met his eyes, unflinching. “ Trying to figure out if you’re a vampire or just allergic to joy. ”

His glare was surgical.

“ Scientific observation, ” you added, tapping your notebook.

He stood, collecting his glass. “ Goodnight, Agent. ”

“ Sweet dreams, Count Dracule. ”

The door clicked shut, the final word of a conversation you’d probably started just to see if he’d end it.

You leaned back in your chair, flipping to a clean page.

Day Twelve: Subject continues to display avoidance behavior when provoked. Possible signs of mild irritation. Hypothesis, progress.

The wind howled through the broken halls, carrying the distant cries of crows. You smiled to yourself, pen resting against your lip.

The silence here didn’t smother you anymore. You’d learned to breathe in it, bend it, turn it into something that almost answered back.

And somewhere, in the heart of that empty castle, you suspected that for the first time in years, Dracule Mihawk, World’s Greatest Swordsman, Master of Solitude was beginning to wonder whether peace and quiet had, perhaps, been a little overrated.

When the letter arrived, sealed with the familiar crimson mark of the World Government, Mihawk had only one reaction.

He scoffed.

The paper itself, crisp and officious, felt like an insult. An entire edifice of diplomacy and fragile treaties compressed into a single sheet of bureaucratic arrogance. Pirates and governments, shaking hands and nodding politely, pretending that a word could mean safety. He had never mistaken it for trust. It was control, dressed in ink. And now, they intended to send a watcher. An agent with a notebook and a pen, tasked with scrutinizing him, cataloging his days as though Hawk Eyes Dracule were some misbehaving child in need of supervision.

He had considered ignoring it. Or burning it.

The idea tempted him in ways he wouldn’t have admitted even to himself. Flames had a way of resolving annoyances far more permanently than patience ever could.

But peace, however tenuous, however fragile, was still peace.

He would tolerate this farce.

For now.

And if patience failed him… well, there were other ways to remind the world that Hawk Eyes Dracule answered to no one.

He had expected little.

And yet, when the agent arrived, you, somehow, you managed to surpass even the modest expectations he had set.

You were too casual. Too talkative. Too alive. Too… persistent. For his taste.

He watched from the shadows of the ruins, where the mist clung like old memories, as you wandered through the shattered remains of what had once been a castle, humming tunelessly as though the graveyard of kingdoms were a garden path and not a memorial to forgotten empires. When you startled the Humandrills, he almost let them deal with you.

Almost.

But curiosity, a trait he loathed yet understood all too well, pulled him in, and he intervened.

When you finally stood before him, appearing as if the fog itself had taken human form, he took one measured glance and realized two things. First, you were not suicidal. Not yet, at least. But you would test his limits regardless. Second, this would be a very long year.

Your very first words confirmed it.

“ And I am to survive yours. ”

Bold. Reckless. Quite amusing.

He had expected the silence of the castle to drive you mad, as it had with every other intruder who had dared cross his threshold. Yet, you did not flinch. You filled the empty corridors with humming, chatter, and a level of persistence that bordered on reckless impudence.

He felt a strange tug in his chest, annoyance, yes, but something else, something unfamiliar. Deja vu, he told himself, it was due to a certain redhead, who was less intolerable than you. He had spent decades refining solitude, shaping it into discipline. Control had been a fortress, routine had been an armor. Then you appeared, and control became negotiation.

He rose with dawn. You followed. He trained with precision, each swing of Yoru a quiet poem of inevitability. You commented. He drank his wine. You asked if he ever named his cabbages.

Ridiculous.

At times, he thought fleetingly of his original plan, sending a message back to the Government, wrapped around a severed head. But you were difficult to ignore.

Most people avoided his gaze. You met it. Squarely. Unflinchingly. When you were not speaking, you were watching, and not poorly. There was a kind of practiced attentiveness in your silence, a precision that came from experience and careful observation.

He respected that. Privately. He would never speak it aloud.

Half a month passed, and Mihawk realized some alarming truths.

You had memorized his routine, every swing, every sip of wine, every quiet moment of contemplation. And you had discovered the way to weaponize boredom.

You asked questions that deserved no answer. You hummed off-key and invaded his library as though it were your own living room, desecrating the carefully constructed peace of years with a song so terrible that even the crows abandoned the windowsills.

When he ordered you to stop, you smiled that infuriating little smile, the one that suggested you had done it on purpose, that provoking him might have been the very reason for your existence.

He began to wonder, darkly, if the Government had sent you not merely to observe, but to test him.

Or perhaps, he thought, both.

Still, when the evening came and you were not there, the silence felt too loud.

He dismissed the thought immediately. Peace was not something to miss.

But when you had called him Count Dracule, with that irrepressible lilt in your voice, he had nearly laughed. Nearly. The audacity of it.

He had retreated to his chambers, reminding himself that amusement was not weakness.

He told himself he tolerated you because you stayed out of the way. Because you were competent enough to not be a liability. Because you did not fear him and that was at least honest.

Honestly, he truth was simpler.

You made the silence less predictable.

He found himself listening for your footsteps in the hallways, for the faint scrape of your pen as you recorded your observations. He told himself it was vigilance, ensuring you did not overstep. (It was partly that.)

Once, he caught you watching him. He asked, voice even, measured, what it was you were staring at.

Your answer had been so absurd it nearly made him falter. “ Trying to figure out if you’re a vampire or just allergic to joy. ”

It was preposterous. Ludicrous.

That night, as he passed the open doorway where you worked, he heard you laughing softly to yourself, pen scratching in the quiet, a sound so human that, for a moment, the castle did not feel empty.

He paused at the threshold, glass in hand, half-lit by flickering candlelight, and for the briefest moment considered the audacity of admitting what he felt.

Then, so quietly that even the shadows might have doubted they heard him, he murmured, “ Perhaps… I can tolerate it for a year. ”

And he left before you could look up, leaving only the faint echo of his steps lingering in the cold stone corridor.

The castle slept like a corpse, but only on the surface. Stone corridors yawned and twisted into themselves, endless halls echoing your footsteps as though whispering secrets to one another. Candles flickered in sconces, the smoke curling like smoke signals from some invisible war. Outside, the wind gnawed at the parapets, and the fog rolled in thick, suffocating sheets, swallowing everything beyond the walls. Inside, the cold was sharper than steel, and the silence, it was heavier than any weight you’d ever known. Perfect.

Perfect for testing limits.

You had long since stopped caring about subtlety. That was for spies who valued their lives over their curiosity, for those who feared the consequences of attention. You did not. You had a mission. That is to observe, record, and, when opportunity permitted, provoke. Every sound, every flicker of shadow, every trace of Mihawk’s presence was a data point, a challenge, an opportunity. And the fact that the strongest swordsman in the world was your quarry only made it more delicious.

Mornings began with Mihawk rising as he always did, a single figure moving through the dim corridors with the certainty of fate. Yoru, black and gleaming, caught the weak dawn light, slicing arcs of air that could have cut mountains in two. You watched, notebook open, hum deliberately behind him, timing your movements with his exhalations between swings.

At first, it had startled him. Just a twitch, a fleeting flicker in his golden eyes but by the end of the week, he no longer flinched. He barely even exhaled audibly. You made a note, progress.

Wine time was more entertaining. You leaned against the doorway, pen hovering above the page like a blade, eyes flicking over his every motion. The faint clink of glass, the slow tilt of the decanter, the careful pour into a crystal goblet, all of it was so mundane, so precise…that it became ripe for commentary.

“ Do you ever add sugar to that wine, ” you asked casually one morning, “o r are you just naturally bitter? ”

His golden eyes blinked once. Nothing else. Who adds sugar to wine?

“ Too soon? ” you whispered, barely to yourself. “ Right, jokes aren’t part of your daily routine. ”

Still nothing. Slow progress, but at least there was potential.

By mid-morning, you had discovered that outside the training yard, Mihawk’s life was just as regimented, perhaps even more so. He tended his garden with the meticulous care of someone who could measure sunlight in millimeters, who could count the exact seconds of wind through the leaves. You crouched behind bushes, scribbling notes, occasionally tossing pebbles near the crows. Predictably, the crows reacted far more than he did.

“ So… they listen to me, but you don’t, ” you muttered under your breath, a grin tugging at your lips.

Afternoons were more dangerous, for him. You had discovered that while he valued solitude, boredom was his Achilles’ heel. And boredom, you decided, was an invitation. You tried deliberate mischief; humming loudly in his presence, reciting lines from books in an exaggerated, dramatic tone, performing the occasional absurd flourish just to see what would happen.

“ ‘ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…! ’ ”

Silence. Not even a glance. You waved dramatically. Still nothing.

“ Okay, ” you murmured, noting carefully in your notebook, “ maybe he’s not allergic to joy. Maybe he’s..professionally dead inside. ”

Evenings were sacred. Mihawk poured his wine, settled into a chair with a book, and became a monument of stillness. You could have performed acrobatics behind him, jumped, twirled, screamed, and he would have filed it all under ambient noise.

Day Fourteen.

The day arrived like a drumbeat in a quiet room. Subtlety was gone. You perched on the balcony, legs dangling over the stone railing, notebook in hand, narrating your life in the most melodramatic tones you could muster.

“ And then, I tripped over a broom in the storeroom, fell headfirst into a barrel of apples, and the rats, yes, the rats did not even bother to help me. Truly, the indifference of rodents mirrors the cruelty of men! ”

From the shadows, he appeared. Silently. Impossible. You didn’t flinch.

“ Your timing is awful, ” you said, not even looking up.

Golden eyes caught the candlelight. He tilted his head. “ Am I interrupting? ”

“ Interrupting? You? Never, ” you said smoothly. “ You merely exist in a way that ruins dramatic tension. ”

He said nothing. Arms crossed, silent judgment radiating like gravity. The weight of him made your grin widen.

“ Really, Count Dracule, I must thank you, ” you said. “ Your silent disapproval has motivated my inner monologue today. ”

Slowly, deliberately, he glided closer, boots whispering against stone, echoing like distant drums. “ I do not approve, ” he said flatly.

“ Ah! Even better! Consistency! Now I can write a footnote, ” you said, flipping a page.

He sighed faintly, a whisper of sound that felt like victory in itself.

By the end of that day, your notebook overflowed.

Subject demonstrates uncanny ability to ignore chaos while simultaneously instilling fear through sheer presence. Subject tolerates minor insults but maintains discipline; possible weak point: boredom. Hypothesis: subject may consider killing observer if boredom reaches critical levels. Recommendation: continue testing tolerance.

You leaned back, smiling quietly, flipping to a fresh page. Somewhere in the castle, you imagined him passing your balcony, glass in hand, silently judging your nonsense.

You just knew.

And you smiled.

Because if he was watching you, then you were watching him back. And maybe, just maybe, you were winning the little war neither of you would admit.

Somewhere deep in the castle, Mihawk thought the same thing.

He could not tolerate this for a year.

He reconsidered the backup plan. Sending your head back suddenly seemed tempting.