Across the narrow cobbled street from the modest inn rose an establishment that could not have been more different in spirit or scale. Where the inn was warm, practical, and human, this place was excess made stone.
The building stood tall and proud, its façade of polished white marble veined with gold, accented by crimson banners that swayed lazily in the sea breeze. Tall arched windows framed with ornate ironwork reflected the sunlight like watchful eyes, while carved columns—far more decorative than structural—lined the front. Crystal lamps hung even in daylight, their presence less about illumination and more about reminding anyone who looked that wealth here was not hidden, but flaunted.
This was no mere café or lounge. It was a sanctuary for power, a place where deals were whispered and lives were decided over porcelain and wine.
The most coveted space in the establishment lay on the upper level: a VIP balcony, half-open to the air, shaded by silk canopies dyed a deep, violent red. From here, one could overlook the street below—and more importantly, observe without ever being observed. Seated there, languid and unmistakable, was Donquixote Doflamingo.
The Heavenly Yaksha reclined in his chair as if the world itself were arranged for his comfort. He wore a crimson suit, tailored to perfection, the fabric rich and bold enough to command attention even from a distance. Beneath it, his open shirt revealed a hint of chest, casual in a way only someone utterly untouchable could afford. His infamous pink feathered coat was draped carelessly over the back of his chair like a king's discarded mantle, each plume catching the light.
Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but his smile—thin, sharp, amused—was visible enough. Across from him sat an empty chair, ornate and inviting, with a low coffee table placed between them. The table held a pristine tea set, steam curling lazily from a delicate cup. Despite his casual offer, Stussy did not sit.
Instead, she stood beside the table, holding her teacup with elegant restraint, posture flawless, movements precise. Every gesture was practiced grace, the kind cultivated in courtrooms and shadowed halls alike. Yet she had no interest in the tea.
Her gaze remained fixed across the street—on the modest inn whose wooden door had recently closed behind a plain-looking woman and her infant. Stussy knew the truth.
The fate of that Cipher Pol agent, disguised as a widowed mother, had already been sealed the moment she stepped onto Dressrosan soil. The Donquixote Family did not miss such things. They never did. They had allowed the woman to enter not out of mercy—but strategy.
Counterintelligence. Capture. Extraction.
That was how Dressrosa worked beneath its smiling façade. Stussy tightened her grip around the porcelain cup, though her expression remained serene. She could already imagine the sequence: the quiet capture, the sealed room, the questions asked gently at first… and then not so gently at all.
The Donquixote Family was infamous for many things, but none more so than its talent for breaking people. Even Cipher Pol agents—trained from childhood, conditioned to endure pain, silence, and loss—had cracked beneath their methods. Some spoke. Some begged. Some simply stopped being themselves.
It was no coincidence that the Donquixote Family controlled one of the most expansive information networks in the world, rivaling—no, surpassing—even the World Government's reach.
You did not build such a web without knowing how to pull strings… or snap spines. In that sense, Stussy knew she was fortunate.
The Donquixote Family already knew her secrets—her role within CP0, her true allegiance to Dr. Vegapunk, the delicate balance she walked between shadow and science. Had that not been the case—had Rosinante not vouched for her—she would have shared the same fate as the agent across the street. A slow, invisible descent into silence.
"You are a cruel man, Mr. Doflamingo," Stussy said at last.
She finally raised the teacup to her lips and took a measured sip. The tea was exquisite—floral, rare, expensive. She tasted none of it. Her eyes never left the inn. Doflamingo's smile widened just a fraction, as if her words amused him more than offended him.
Doflamingo let out a low, rolling chuckle— "Fufufufufu…"
But he did not turn toward Stussy. Instead, his head angled lazily to the side, toward the small figure seated beside him. Perched in a chair far too grand for her size sat a young girl, no older than seven. Her presence was striking not because of flamboyance, but because of the intentional imitation in every detail of her posture.
Vinsmoke Reiju.
She wore a tailored miniature suit in soft shades of pink and white, its cut unmistakably reminiscent of Doflamingo's own—too refined, too deliberate for a child. A tiny feathered mantle rested over her shoulders, clearly inspired by the Heavenly Yaksha's coat, though far lighter, almost symbolic. One leg was crossed over the other as she sat back with unnatural composure, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, chin supported by her knuckles.
It was not playacting. It was study.
Her long hair fell neatly down her back, restrained so it would not interfere as she read, and in her hands was a thick book—dense with text, diagrams, and notes far beyond what any ordinary child should have been able to comprehend.
To anyone watching closely, it was obvious. This child was learning how to be a predator. She did not flinch when Doflamingo addressed her. She did not rush to answer either.
"Fufufufu… what do you think, Reiju?" Doflamingo asked lightly, amusement curling through his voice.
"Does what she just said have merit? Am I a cruel man?" Reiju turned a page slowly before finally closing the book, the soft thump echoing faintly against the marble and velvet around them. She lifted her gaze—sharp, focused, disturbingly clear.
She did not look at Stussy. Her attention was solely on her master. For a brief moment, she tilted her head, as if genuinely considering the question from multiple angles. It was not the hesitation of uncertainty—but of analysis. Then she spoke.
"Cruelty," Reiju said evenly, her voice calm and measured far beyond her years, "is not an absolute. It is a matter of perspective."
Doflamingo's smile widened slightly. Reiju continued, her eyes steady.
"If our enemies call you cruel, then it means you are effective. It means you have inflicted harm where harm was deserved." She shifted subtly in her seat, mirroring Doflamingo's relaxed dominance without even realizing it. "Showing mercy to one's enemies is often mistaken for virtue—but in truth, it can be cruelty directed inward."
She paused, then added, almost clinically: "Every kindness extended to an enemy is a risk imposed upon one's own people." Her fingers tightened around the edge of her book.
"I would rather see our enemies suffer," she said without hesitation, "than see our family suffer for the mercy we showed them." There was no malice in her tone. Only logic.
"From that perspective," Reiju concluded, lifting her chin just slightly, "I would not call you cruel, Master. I would call you benevolent—to those who stand under your protection."
Silence lingered for a breath.
Then— "Fufufufufufu…!"
Doflamingo leaned back, laughter spilling freely now, rich with approval. The sound carried across the balcony like the crackle of a bonfire.
"Ohhh, how delightful," he said, one hand lifting to rest against his cheek. "To hear such clarity from someone so young."
He turned his face fully toward Reiju now, his grin sharp and proud. "You're learning quickly. It seems like the time away from home has taught you a lot of new things…"
Reiju did not smile. Praise, to her, was not an end—only confirmation that she was on the right path. Stussy stood silently beside them, teacup frozen in her hand. For the first time since arriving in Dressrosa, a chill crept beneath her flawless composure.
This was no ordinary child. This was a mind being sharpened under the Heavenly Yaksha's direct guidance—a blade still small, but already terrifyingly precise.
Just then, the heavy doors leading into the VIP balcony swung open with deliberate weight, their polished hinges whispering against velvet-lined frames. Two figures stepped inside. The first entered with measured confidence, every movement composed, controlled—almost ceremonial.
Señor Pink. Today, he wore an immaculately tailored black suit, cut so precisely it looked poured onto him rather than worn. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders, the lapels sharp as razors, a deep crimson pocket square tucked neatly at his chest like a muted warning.
His hair was slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place, and his expression—calm, stoic, unreadable—carried the quiet authority of a man who had survived both devotion and loss.
There was something almost funereal about him in this attire, as if he were dressed for either a wedding or an execution—and in Dressrosa, the two were often the same. A step behind him came the second figure, his presence far more volatile.
Gladius. Still in his late teens, he looked like a barely contained power wrapped in human form. His outfit was unmistakable: a dark, angular coat reinforced with metal studs, sharp seams, and hardened plates along the shoulders and forearms. Thick gloves encased his hands, and his boots struck the marble floor with impatient force. His hair was styled upward in aggressive spikes, as if gravity itself had failed to keep him restrained.
His eyes burned with restless intensity, constantly scanning the room, daring the world to give him a reason to unleash himself. Compared to Señor's calm gravity, Gladius was raw tension incarnate—a weapon still learning how to aim itself.
Both men stopped a few paces inside the VIP area. Señor inclined his head slightly toward Doflamingo, not bowing, not saluting—just a subtle acknowledgment between loyal hounds and their master.
"Master Doffy, the matter has been taken care of,"" he said simply, voice low and steady.
"Troublesome opponent…?" Doflamingo echoed lightly, the corners of his mouth lifting as his fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair. Señor Pink answered without ceremony, as if discussing nothing more taxing than a delayed shipment.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," he said evenly. "It just required… more care than usual. We needed her alive."
A sharp, derisive snort slipped from Gladius before he could stop himself— and died instantly. Señor Pink didn't raise his voice. He didn't even turn fully. He merely shifted his gaze, slow and heavy, fixing Gladius with a look that carried years of battlefield authority and unspoken reprimand. The younger man stiffened, jaw tightening as he looked away, swallowing the rest of his comment.
Doflamingo noticed everything. He always did. His head tilted slightly, pink feathers rustling as his attention sharpened. Behind the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes locked onto details others would miss. The faint darkening at Señor's cuff. The way his wrist remained unnaturally still. The scent—metallic, fresh—barely masked by cologne and immaculate tailoring.
Blood. Doflamingo's grin widened, predatory, amused in the way only a man accustomed to violence could be.
"Fufufu…" he chuckled softly. "Was she really that strong…?" His voice dropped a fraction, curiosity threading through it. "Strong enough to leave a mark on you, Señor?"
That question carried weight. Señor Pink was not merely a subordinate. He was the Heavenly Yaksha's shadow, the man who had trained his body into a weapon not for glory, but for loyalty. He did not boast. He did not complain. He fought with a quiet, relentless seriousness that every member of the Donquixote family respected.
He wasn't an Admiral-tier monster like Issho—but in the New World, Vice Admiral level was the line that separated soldiers from legends. And Señor Pink stood firmly on the far side of that line. For him to be injured at all meant something had gone very wrong.
Señor inhaled slowly, already preparing to shoulder the blame himself, when Gladius spoke again—too fast, too honest.
"Not really, Master Doffy," Gladius said, irritation lacing his words. "It wasn't her strength. Señor hesitated." The word hung in the air.
"Hesitated…?" Doflamingo repeated, amused rather than angered.
Gladius continued, unable—or unwilling—to stop himself. "She used the infant as a shield. Took advantage of Senor's moment of hesitation."
Silence followed. Señor Pink lowered his head, just a fraction. Not in shame—but in acknowledgment. His hands curled slowly at his sides, knuckles whitening beneath the gloves.
"I did," he said quietly. "For less than a second."
That second had been enough. Doflamingo did not laugh. He did not scold. He simply leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying his oldest companion with an intensity that could have crushed weaker men. He knew Señor Pink better than anyone. He knew that hesitation was not weakness—it was choice.
And Señor Pink had chosen, in that moment, to disobey the order that he considered above all others in favor of the infant's life. To stake his own life to save the infants while fighting a deadly enemy. No matter, the end result had been favourable. Not even Doflamingo mistook that for disloyalty. He knew truly the kind of man his long time friend was and after a long moment, the Heavenly Yaksha finally spoke, his voice calm, almost fond.
"You followed my orders ultimately," he said. "That's all that matters." Señor Pink lifted his head then, spine straightening immediately. "Always," he replied without hesitation.
"Is the child safe…?" The question fell into the room without warning—soft, almost casual—yet it struck harder than any threat Doflamingo could have made.
Stussy froze. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she had misheard him. She stood there, teacup poised inches from her lips, eyes widening just slightly as her gaze snapped toward the Heavenly Yaksha. The words echoed in her mind, clashing violently with everything the world believed it knew about Donquixote Doflamingo.
This was the man whose name alone made kingdoms tremble. The man who had ordered entire islands erased when they became inconvenient. The man who ruled Dressrosa through absolute dominion, controlling the lives and fate of every living being within it, his domain, smiling as nations bled. A monster without remorse. A devil with no moral floor.
And yet—here he was. Asking about an infant. Not as leverage. Not as a bargaining chip. Not with cruelty masked as curiosity. But with genuine concern.
Stussy's fingers tightened around the porcelain cup, the faint clink of china betraying the crack in her composure. To anyone else in the room, it might have seemed nothing. To her, it was a rupture in the narrative she had carried for decades.
He hadn't even known the child existed until moments ago. And still—that had been his first question. The room remained quiet, heavy with implication.
Señor Pink answered without delay with a subtle smile on his otherwise neutral face. "The child is unharmed," he said firmly. "No injuries. She used it as a shield, but I made sure it wasn't hurt."
A subtle shift passed through Doflamingo's posture. His shoulders eased by the smallest degree, a tension releasing that Stussy hadn't even realized had been there. "Good," Doflamingo said simply.
The doors to the VIP lounge burst open once more— and in strode Diamante, his arrival announced not by ceremony but by a booming, echoing laugh that filled the space like rolling thunder.
"Look—look, Doffy!" he bellowed, holding something up with theatrical pride. "She likes me! Look at her—she thinks I'm handsome! Don't you think so too, Doffy? Am I not handsome?!"
Cradled in Diamante's massive hand was an infant, absurdly small against his towering frame, kicking her feet and giggling without a shred of fear. In his grasp she looked like a porcelain doll placed in the palm of a colossus, yet somehow—miraculously—safe.
Señor Pink let out a long, weary sigh. He hadn't even had the chance to ask Doflamingo yet. The moment Diamante had barged in with the child, the truth was laid bare without a single word exchanged. Diamante did not bother with children that weren't theirs. If he carried an infant into the family's inner sanctum, then the decision had already been made—at least in his heart. Doflamingo chuckled, amused, his sharp grin widening as he glanced at Señor's expression.
"You look like you just lost a negotiation without realizing you were at the table," Doflamingo teased lightly.
Truth be told, he wasn't surprised.
The Donquixote Family had a habit—no, a curse—of attracting abandoned children. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Fate seemed to toss the broken, the unwanted, and the forsaken straight into their arms. More than half of their ranks had once been cast aside by the world.
Doflamingo turned his attention back to Diamante, who was now—somewhat carelessly—rocking the infant back and forth, the baby squealing with delight.
"Look, look!" Diamante continued, oblivious to everything else. "She's laughing! And—get this—she's got tiny horns! See? Right here! What do you think, Doffy—an oni, maybe? Hahaha! Maybe I should take her as my apprentice when she grows up. Everyone's doing it now—Senor's got Anya, after all! It's practically a trend!"
He kept talking, words tumbling over one another, asking questions and answering them himself without pause. Then, suddenly, he stopped. He turned slowly toward Doflamingo. "…You still haven't answered me Doffy."
A dramatic beat. "Do you think I'm handsome?"
Only Doflamingo could handle Diamante when he got like this. Doflamingo didn't hesitate. His face remained perfectly straight. "Yes, Diamante," he said evenly. "It's true. You are a very handsome man." Diamante recoiled as if struck by lightning, waving his free arm in exaggerated denial.
"No—no, Doffy! You're exaggerating! How could I possibly be the most handsome man? You jest! You jest!" Doflamingo tilted his head slightly. "I'm not exaggerating."
"No, no, no!" Diamante protested louder, clearly fishing for more. "That can't be right!" Doflamingo sighed—softly, theatrically. "Fine," he said at last. "If you insist, Diamante—"
"—Fine! Fine!" Diamante interrupted eagerly, stepping forward. "If you say so, Doffy, I will reluctantly agree!" He giggled, finally satisfied, basking in his victory.
Meanwhile, Reiju had already slipped closer, her sharp eyes fixed on the infant. She gently reached out, and Diamante passed the child to her without a second thought. The baby settled easily into Reiju's arms, fingers curling around a strand of her pink hair.
"So…" Reiju said thoughtfully, studying the infant's small horns. "Does she have a name yet?"
Diamante hummed, stroking his chin with exaggerated seriousness.
"Well," he declared, "since she's going to grow up as handsome as me, it's only right that I name her." He snapped his fingers.
"Dellinger." The name hung in the air. Diamante turned to Doflamingo, eyes shining. "What do you think, Doffy?" Doflamingo repeated the name slowly, tasting it, a grin spreading across his face.
"Dellinger…" he said. Then he nodded once. "If you say so, Diamante." Another child claimed by fate. Another thread woven into the Donquixote Family's tapestry—not by blood, but by inevitability.