Midnight.
The snow-dusted ship groaned quietly in the frozen harbor, its hull encased in ice like a forgotten relic. The wind whispered through the rigging, and frost clung to every surface. But the true prison wasn't the cold, nor the creaking wood.
It was inside Stussy's mind.
She shot upright in her cot, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat. Silk sheets tangled around her limbs like vines. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, fogging the air. Sweat clung to her skin despite the chill.
The dream again.
Always the same.
A battlefield of fire and ash. A man silhouetted against a burning sky, his hair a chaotic storm of red and white. His fist—not flesh, but molten rock—glowed like a miniature volcano. It didn't strike. It consumed. Light. Sound. Hope.
And it always came for her.
But this time, something changed.
As the lava swirled, the face within the fire shifted. The wild, half-mad grin of Gunnar dissolved. In its place—cold, composed, terrifying—stood the tavern keeper.
Ragnar.
His golden eyes burned through the dream, through the fire, through her.
Stussy clutched her chest, heart hammering like a trapped bird. She stared into the shadows of her cabin, the silence pressing in.
"It's him," she whispered. "That monster… He's here. Hiding."
She swung her legs over the side of the cot, bare feet touching the icy floor. Her mind, sharp as ever, began to spin. The denial. The hair. The calm demeanor. It was all a mask. A disguise.
But why?
Why would Gunnar, the man they prodigy, abandon the pirate world for a bar?
Then the final piece clicked.
The girl.
Iris.
Golden eyes. That unmistakable trait. And the hair—white, long, fine.
Stussy's breath caught.
"Smoothie…" she murmured.
Charlotte Smoothie. One of Big Mom's Sweet Commanders. Longleg heritage. Stark white hair. She remembered the rumors—Maybe, He had a child.
Had something else happened?
The girl's height. Her legs. Her presence.
A child born of two empires.
The grandchild of Whitebeard.
And the grandchild of Big Mom.
A child whose very existence was a declaration of war. A secret worth dying for. A secret worth faking your own death for.
Stussy stood slowly, her fear melting into something colder. Sharper.
Leverage.
A slow, triumphant smile curled across her lips.
"Oh, Gunnar," she purred to the empty room. "You have no idea what a mistake you've made."
She walked to the frosted window, staring out at the distant tavern lights.
"I will make you admit it," she whispered. "I will make you say your own name."
Her reflection stared back—eyes gleaming with ambition.
***
The morning sun cast long, blue shadows across the snow-covered village. Frost clung to the windows of the People's Tavern, and the scent of fresh bread and brewing coffee drifted through the air.
The doors slammed open.
Stussy stepped inside, her crimson coat trailing behind her like a royal banner. Weevil followed, silent and looming, his eyes scanning the room with dull confusion.
The tavern quieted. A few patrons looked up from their mugs. The young waiter behind the counter straightened nervously, notepad in hand.
"Good morning. A table for—"
"No table," Stussy cut in, her voice sharp as broken glass. She didn't even glance at him. Her eyes were locked on the back of the room. "Bring Gunnar to me."
The waiter blinked. "I… I'm sorry, ma'am. There's no one here by that name."
"Oh, don't be foolish," she snapped. "The one who calls himself Ragnar. Tell him his past has come calling."
The boy hesitated, then scurried off.
Moments later, heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Ragnar descended slowly, his expression unreadable. He didn't approach her. He walked behind the bar, picked up a cloth, and began wiping the counter as if she were just another customer.
Stussy's lips curled. "Still pretending, are we?"
Ragnar didn't look up. "If you've come for breakfast, the kitchen's open. If you've come for trouble, the door's still behind you."
She approached the bar, Weevil trailing behind like a shadow. She leaned in, her voice a low, dangerous whisper.
"Up close, there's no mistaking them. Those are Edward Newgate's eyes. Passed down to his most volatile son."
Ragnar's hand paused mid-wipe.
"I don't know what fantasy you're chasing," he said, voice low. "But you're not going to find it here."
"Oh, I've already found it," she said, eyes gleaming. "The girl. Iris. Golden eyes. White hair. Long legs. A fondness for juice, perhaps? She's not just your daughter, is she?"
His hand stilled completely.
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" she said, her voice rising just enough to draw attention. "A child born of Whitebeard's wrath and Big Mom's bloodline. A living powder keg. And you're hiding her in a tavern like she's just another village girl."
Ragnar turned to face her fully. His eyes were molten gold, and for a moment, the room felt colder.
"She's my daughter," he said, each word like a hammer. "Her mother was an orphan I met in the ruins of a library. She is gone. Iris is mine. That is the beginning and the end of the story."
Stussy's smile sharpened. "A beautiful lie. But you and I both know the truth. Say it. Say your name. Say it, and maybe I'll keep your secret. For a price."
A long silence stretched between them. The tavern seemed to hold its breath.
Then Ragnar exhaled. Slowly. Calmly.
"I am not Gunnar."
The words were final. Not a denial born of fear—but of conviction. A man who had buried his past so deeply, even he no longer believed it existed.
Stussy stared at him, searching for a crack. A twitch. A flicker of the beast beneath.
She found nothing.
And that was when she understood.
He would never admit it. Not to her. Not to anyone. The denial wasn't a lie—it was armor. A fortress built from grief, guilt, and love.
She laughed.
It started as a chuckle, then grew into a full, rich laugh that echoed through the quiet tavern. She wiped a tear from her eye, shaking her head.
"Oh, you are good," she said. "You are very, very good."
She turned, her coat flaring behind her like a cape. She didn't need his confession anymore. His silence was louder than any truth.
At the door, she paused and looked back, her voice like a dagger wrapped in silk.
"Enjoy your peace, Ragnar. Enjoy your quiet little life. While it lasts."
And then she was gone.
The door swung shut behind her.
Ragnar stood alone behind the bar, the silence heavier than any storm. Upstairs, faint and innocent, Iris hummed a cheerful tune.
And Ragnar closed his eyes.