I stared at the ruined buildings, my Mantra tracking every conscious presence still scattered around the plaza like broken chess pieces.
The bounty hunters—no more than thirty of them, most barely able to stand—emerged from the shadows with all the confidence of mice approaching a sleeping cat.
'And here comes the cleanup crew. Though calling them a "crew" is generous. More like a collection of regrets personified.'
Mr. 9 and Miss Monday led the group, both looking like they'd been through a meat grinder.
The acrobat's theatrical demeanor had completely evaporated, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that came from having your entire worldview demolished in a single night.
Miss Monday moved with careful steps, her muscular frame clearly struggling with all the damage she had taken.
The others fanned out behind them—bounty hunters whose names I didn't know and didn't particularly care to learn—although if what I wanted to do happened, I would need to remember their names.
But all in all, they looked worse for wear, sporting various injuries from our earlier "welcoming party".
"You called us out," Miss Monday said, her voice clearly conveying the pain and tiredness she was holding. "So what do you want from us?"
'Straight to business. Good. I can work with that. Though given your current state, "business" might be an overly optimistic term for whatever this conversation becomes.'
But before I could respond, my Mantra pinged—a subtle shift in several of the bounty hunters' emotional states.
Malicious intent bleeding through the exhaustion, opportunistic calculation mixing with desperation.
'Oh, you've got to be kidding me. They're actually considering attacking us. Right now. After we demolished them and the two Devil Fruit users in mid-air. The definition of insanity is apparently alive and well in Whiskey Peak.'
I could see it in their positioning—the way three of them had subtly shifted to flank our group, how two others were eyeing the exits with calculated looks. They thought we'd lowered our guard. Assumed the friendly conversation with Nefertari meant we were vulnerable.
'Time to kill that thought before it becomes action. Because I really don't want to spend the rest of the night fighting people whose survival instinct clearly died somewhere between the party trap and right now.'
My hands moved with practiced speed, pulling out my last two bottles of Hamon Ether from my hip bag. The semi-liquid inside glowed faintly as I channeled my Ripple energy through both containers simultaneously.
WHOOSH! SWIRL! SHINE!
Four Hamon circles materialized in front of me—two from each bottle, the golden energy formations spreading out in geometric perfection.
I made them radiate heat deliberately, the air around each circle shimmering like summer pavement as I channeled more power through them.
'Maximum intimidation, minimum actual violence. The best kind of threat display—all flash and promise with just enough substance that they believe you'll follow through.'
The effect was immediate and gratifying.
The bounty hunters froze, their eyes going wide as they stared at the glowing circles floating in the air like mystical weaponry. The malicious intent I'd sensed through my Mantra evaporated faster than water on hot steel, replaced by genuine fear.
"What—" one of them stammered, his voice climbing several octaves. "What is that?!"
"Magic circles!" another whispered, taking several steps backward. "The sorcerer is—"
"Is-Is this a Devil Fruit ability?!" a third interrupted, his hands coming up in a placating gesture.
I let the circles pulse with additional heat, small waves of warm air radiating outward. Behind me, I could sense my crewmates' reactions—Luffy's amazed voice, Zoro's satisfied grunt, Sanji's interested hum, Usopp's nervous gulp, and Nami's mercenary appreciation for a good threat display.
'Time to make my position crystal clear. As apparently, subtle intimidation is lost on people who thought attacking us was a good idea five seconds ago.'
"Let me make something very clear," I said, my voice dropping to something cold and precise. "The only reason I'm willing to talk to you right now is because I have a proposition. A business proposition that could benefit everyone involved."
I paused, letting the Hamon circles pulse brighter for emphasis.
"But if any of you are laboring under the delusion that this conversation represents an opportunity to continue fighting—if you think our Captain's friendliness means we're vulnerable—then I'm more than willing to deliver a fight."
CRACKLE! GATHER! SHINE!
The centers of all four Hamon circles began gathering concentrated energy—small orbs of golden power forming like miniature suns.
"Except this time, I won't be holding back. This time, I'll use the most brutal, devastating options at my disposal."
The heat intensified, and I made sure everyone could feel the promise of violence contained in those formations.
The bounty hunters' panic was palpable. I watched through my Mantra as their malicious intentions completely dissolved, replaced by a simple survival instinct.
Some were already backing away, hands raised in surrender. Others looked like they wanted to run but were too scared to turn their backs.
"Wait! Wait!" Miss Monday stepped forward quickly, her soft voice carrying urgency despite her injuries.
"Please! We're willing to listen! We're in no state to fight—we know that!"
She positioned herself between the panicking bounty hunters and my Hamon circles, her body language screaming mediation despite the fact that one wrong move from anyone could trigger an actual conflict.
"We just want to talk," she continued, her eyes fixed on me with the kind of desperate sincerity that suggested she was very aware of how quickly this situation could go wrong. "Whatever proposition you have, we'll listen. Just... please don't attack."
I let the tension stretch for another moment, watching as the last traces of malicious intent faded from the group's emotional landscape.
My Mantra confirmed what I needed to know—they were genuinely scared now, genuinely willing to negotiate rather than fight.
'Good enough. That would instill my later message quite thoroughly, and weed out who is hopeless from who is not.'
WHOOSH! SWIRL!
I deactivated the Hamon circles, the golden formations dissipating back into the bottles with a sound like wind through trees.
The heat faded immediately, and I could feel the collective exhale from the bounty hunters as the immediate threat disappeared.
"That's better," I said, my voice returning to conversational tones as I carefully stored the Hamon Ether bottles back in my hip bag.
"Now that we've established that attacking us would be supremely stupid, we can have an actual conversation."
I crossed my arms, studying the group with analytical attention.
"Before I make my offer, I need to know something. What's your next move? After everything that's happened tonight, and with your entire operation here got demolished—what are you planning to do?"
The silence that followed was heavy with uncertainty. The bounty hunters exchanged glances, some looking to Mr. 9 and Miss Monday for leadership, others just staring at the ground like they wished it would swallow them whole.
Finally, Mr. 9 spoke, his theatrical demeanor completely absent as he addressed the brutal reality of their situation.
"This... all of this was a complete failure," he said, and there was genuine defeat in his voice.
"We were supposed to capture you, process you as bounties, maybe recruit the strongest members. Instead, we got demolished, and we, the agents, got defeated, and we revealed critical information about the organization."
"Baroque Works doesn't take failure lightly," Miss Monday added, her soft voice carrying weight.
"Especially not failure on this scale. Revealing the Boss's identity, losing high-value targets, getting our entire base operation destroyed..."
She trailed off, but the implication was clear.
"They'll clean us up," another bounty hunter said bluntly, his voice rough with exhaustion and fear. "That's what happens to failures in Baroque Works. Especially to people like us who were close enough to spies to know things."
'Clean up. Lovely euphemism for murder. Though I suppose "we'll be systematically eliminated to prevent information leaks" doesn't have the same ring to it.'
"Our only option is to run," Mr. 9 continued, gesturing vaguely at the ruined town around us.
"Get as far away as possible. Leaving the Grand Line for remote locations in the Blues, places where Baroque Works' influence doesn't reach. Islands that are so isolated even the World Government barely remembers they exist."
"Even then," Miss Monday's voice was grim, "we'd be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives. Running, hiding, never knowing if the next stranger in town is an assassin sent to tie up loose ends."
I watched the group's body language carefully—the slumped shoulders, the defeated expressions, the way they spoke about their future like it was already decided.
These were people who'd had their entire support structure demolished in a single night, the organization they'd worked for was now their enemies, and they now faced persecution from both their former employer and potentially the Marines.
'Desperate people. They are either extremely dangerous or extremely useful, depending on how you approach them. And right now, I need something useful.'
"There's another option," I said, my voice cutting through their grim discussion like a knife through fog.
The bounty hunters turned to look at me, confusion evident on their faces.
"What other option?" Mr. 9 asked, genuine curiosity mixing with skepticism. "Unless you're suggesting we all become full-time pirates—"
"Lay low," I interrupted, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. "Find some island, somewhere quiet but not too remote. Stay there, keep your heads down, maintain minimal contact with the outside world. Wait it out."
"Wait out what?" Miss Monday's eyes narrowed. "Baroque Works isn't just going to forget about us. They don't work that way."
"Wait until Baroque Works is out of the picture entirely," I said simply. "Until the organization no longer exists to hunt you down."
The silence that followed was profound. The bounty hunters stared at me like I'd just suggested the moon was made of cheese and we should all go there for a picnic.
"Out of the picture?" one of them repeated slowly, as if testing whether the words made sense when said aloud. "You mean... destroyed? Disbanded?"
"How would that even be possible?" another asked, his voice climbing with disbelief. "Baroque Works has thousands of members, officer agents with Devil Fruit powers, and a Warlord as their leader! You can't just—"
"Let me worry about that," I said, cutting off the spiraling questions before they could build momentum. "The how and when aren't your concern. What matters is that it's going to happen."
'Eventually. Probably. If we don't get distracted by something else along the way, and Crocodile doesn't manage to kill us all first. But they don't need to know about those particular uncertainties.'
Mr. 9 and Miss Monday exchanged meaningful glances, some unspoken communication passing between them. When Miss Monday spoke again, her soft voice carried a sharper edge.
"Even if Baroque Works somehow gets taken down," she said carefully, "what about the Marines? We'll all be wanted for various crimes. Bounty hunting is legal, but the Baroque Works were a criminal organization..." She trailed off meaningfully.
"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" another bounty hunter added, frustration bleeding into his voice.
"While we're 'laying low' and waiting for this miraculous dissolution of Baroque Works? We still need to eat, still need money for supplies, still need—"
"And speaking of which," Mr. 9 interrupted, his theatrical instincts apparently not completely dead, "can a small group of pirates even take down an organization like Baroque Works? No offense to you or your Captain's ambitions, but this seems..."
"Impossible?" I supplied dryly.
"…I was going to say 'Unlikely,' but sure, impossible works too."
'Finally, someone who speaks my language.'
"Actually," Miss Monday's eyes had narrowed thoughtfully, studying me with new intensity, "why do you even care about any of this? About what happens to us? We tried to kill you. We set a trap for you, attempted to capture you for bounties. By all rights, you should just let us deal with the consequences of our own failure."
Several other bounty hunters nodded, clearly wondering the same thing. And it was a valid question—why would I invest resources, time, and effort into helping people who'd tried to murder us just hours ago?
'Because desperate people with useful skills and no other options make excellent employees. Because I need an information network if I'm going to survive this insane world long enough to get home. Because sometimes the best investment is in people who have nowhere else to turn.'
But saying all that out loud would undermine the entire proposition, so I needed a different approach.
I looked at them, at their desperate, suspicious, calculating faces, and decided honesty—or at least, strategic honesty—was the best approach.
"The Marines," I said, addressing their concerns in order, "won't be a problem. I'll find a way to handle their prosecution. Amnesty, legal protection, something. The details can be worked out later."
Several bounty hunters opened their mouths to protest, but I continued before they could interrupt.
"As for taking down Baroque Works—you're right that we're not a large crew. But we're not alone." I gestured toward Vivi and Igaram.
"There's an entire kingdom backing this operation. Arabasta. Their resources, their intelligence network, their military—all working toward the same goal. And if that wasn't enough, they could get legitimate support from the Marines if they presented their case right."
'That's... mostly true. Assuming Arabasta's compromised government doesn't collapse before we can help, and is in a good enough state to provide those resources. But they don't need to know about those complications right now.'
"What you do in the meantime," I said, addressing the practical concern, "and why I care at all, comes down to one thing."
I paused, letting the moment build.
"I'm offering you a job," I said simply.
The confusion on their faces was almost comical. Several bounty hunters blinked like I'd just spoken in a foreign language. Others exchanged glances that clearly communicated, "Did he just say what I think he said?"
But Mr. 9 and Miss Monday—both of whom had apparently developed functioning brain cells through their time in Baroque Works—caught on immediately. Their expressions shifted from confusion to understanding to cautious interest.
"A job," Mr. 9 said slowly. "You want to... recruit us?"
Miss Monday's eyes narrowed. "You're creating an organization. Like Baroque Works. You want your own criminal network."
'Sharp. They caught on faster than I expected. Professional criminals recognize organizational structures when they see them being built.'
"Similar concept," I acknowledged, already seeing where this explanation needed to go. "But different focus, methods, and goals. I'm not interested in bounty hunting or assassination contracts."
I paused, making sure everyone was paying attention.
"What I want is intelligence. Information gathering, information brokering, smuggling operations, espionage work. Things that require subtlety, discretion, and an understanding of how the criminal underworld operates."
"So... spying?" one bounty hunter said uncertainly.
"Intelligence work," I corrected. "Spying implies working for a government or authority. What I'm proposing is an independent information network. You collect data on pirates, Marines, merchants, significant events—anything that might be valuable to someone, somewhere, sometime."
'And then I will be the owner and the biggest customer of that information from you, because I'm too paranoid to rely on chance encounters for critical intelligence. Plus, having my own information network sounds infinitely more useful than trying to navigate this dangerous world blind.'
Miss Monday's soft voice cut through the murmurs. "You said you're not interested in bounty hunting or assassination. Does that mean we can't engage in those activities?"
"I won't stop you," I clarified. "If you want to continue bounty hunting on the side, that's your business. Same with assassination contracts, smuggling jobs, whatever else pays your bills. Just don't let it compromise the organization's interest or draw unwanted attention that affects everyone else."
I let that sink in before adding the important part.
"And if you ever need assistance from the organization's resources—information, weapons, martial skills, contacts, safe houses, whatever—you'll be able to access those services. For a price, of course. Nothing's free, but you'll get preferred rates as members."
The bounty hunters were starting to look thoughtful now, their expressions shifting from defeated exhaustion to cautious interest. I could see the wheels turning in their heads, calculating possibilities and weighing options.
'Good. Thinking means considering. Considering means potential agreement. And agreement means I don't have to start this entire information network from scratch with complete newbies.'
"How would this work?" Miss Monday asked, her tone suggesting she was seriously considering the proposition despite its source being someone who'd threatened to incinerate them five minutes ago.
"For now, simple tasks," I said, keeping my voice matter-of-fact and professional. "While Baroque Works is still active, you'll focus on establishing infrastructure and gathering baseline intelligence."
I held up my hand, counting off points on my fingers.
"First: establish outposts at the beginning of each of the seven routes in the Grand Line. Small operations—nothing flashy that draws attention. Just places where you can receive information, communicate securely, and maintain a presence."
"Second: collect information on significant people who pass through those routes. Pirates with notable bounties, Marine officers, merchants with valuable cargo, Devil Fruit users—anyone who might be worth knowing about. Names, abilities, crew compositions, known associates, last known locations."
"Third: report that information through encrypted Den Den Mushi communications. The more detailed and accurate your intelligence is, the better your compensation will be."
I lowered my hand, watching their reactions carefully.
"It's not complicated work, and it doesn't require you to take excessive risks. Just observation, note-taking, and secure communication."
One of the bounty hunters—a tall man with a scar across his cheek—spoke up, his voice carrying skepticism.
"Establishing outposts on seven different islands in the Grand Line? That would take a lot of money. Equipment, supplies, bribes to local authorities if needed, safe houses, communication equipment—we're talking tens of millions of Berri at minimum."
'Valid concern. Also predictable. Which is why I came prepared with the universal solution to financial objections: overwhelming amounts of gold.'
I reached into my Dimensional Bag, feeling for the cases I'd prepared with my Stand earlier for a situation like this during our journey to Whiskey Peak. My fingers closed around metal handles, and I pulled out seven identical cases, each one about the size of a small briefcase.
THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!
I set them down on the cobblestones in front of me, the weight of their contents making distinctive sounds against the stone.
"Open them," I said simply.
The bounty hunters hesitated for a moment, then Miss Monday stepped forward and opened the nearest case.
GLEAM! SHINE!
The moonlight caught the contents, and I heard several sharp intakes of breath as the bounty hunters saw what was inside.
Gold. Pure, gleaming gold coins filling the case nearly to the brim. Each case held enough wealth to establish a comfortable operation on any island in Paradise.
"Seven cases," I said, watching their faces carefully. "One for each route. That should be more than sufficient for establishing your outposts and maintaining operations for the first few months."
The bounty hunters stared at the gold like they'd never seen wealth before. Which was ridiculous—these people were bounty hunters who'd worked for Baroque Works. They'd seen money. But seeing it offered to them freely, without strings or tricks, apparently short-circuited their brains temporarily.
'And now for the important disclaimer, because I can already see the wheels turning in some of their heads about whether they could just take the gold and run.'
"Before anyone gets any stupid ideas," I said, my voice dropping to something colder, "understand this: the gold I'm offering you right now is nothing compared to what you'll earn working for this organization. Monthly payments for intelligence, bonuses for particularly valuable information, hazard pay for dangerous assignments—do the job properly, and you'll make more in a year than you made in your entire lifetime until this point."
I let that promise hang in the air for a moment before delivering the threat.
"But if you take this gold and run—if you decide to disappear with the startup capital and betray this arrangement—I will find you. Doesn't matter where you go, what island you hide on, what new identity you create. I will track you down personally, and I will put a bullet in your head. Are we clear?"
The temperature in the plaza seemed to drop several degrees. My Mantra tracked the emotional responses—fear spiking in several individuals, resignation in others, genuine interest in a few. And in two specific people...
'There. Those two in the back. The ones whose greed just overwhelmed their common sense. They're already planning to take the money and run. Idiots.'
But more importantly, I could sense who was genuinely interested in the proposition.
Mr. 9 and Miss Monday were clearly considering it seriously, weighing pros and cons with the kind of tactical thinking that came from experience.
Several others showed cautious interest—fear of Baroque Works mixed with hope for a way out.
And a small group of about five bounty hunters at the back were radiating the kind of opportunistic greed that meant they'd already decided to take the gold and disappear.
'Perfect. Now I know who to actually work with and who to eliminate later. Though for now, let's play along with the fiction that everyone here is trustworthy.'
"So," I said, my voice returning to businesslike tones. "Who's interested? Who wants to help build something that could actually keep you alive and prosperous instead of running scared for the rest of your lives?"
Mr. 9 stepped forward first, his theatrical demeanor returning slightly as he executed a dramatic gesture.
"I'm in," he announced. "Though I have questions about operational security, communication protocols, and how we'll maintain cover identities while establishing these outposts."
'Good questions. He's thinking tactically rather than just emotionally. That's useful.'
"I'm in too," Miss Monday added, her soft voice carrying certainty. "But we'll need to discuss specifics—how we coordinate between routes, what happens if one outpost gets compromised, protocols for emergency situations."
Several other bounty hunters stepped forward as well, their expressions ranging from cautious optimism to desperate hope. About twenty-five people total, including the two leaders.
The remaining five hung back, their body language screaming reluctance despite the gold literally sitting in front of them. My Mantra confirmed what I already suspected—they were the ones planning to take the money and run.
'Time to separate the wheat from the chaff. Or more accurately, separate the potentially useful employees from the ones I'll have to deal with later.'
"Alright," I said, gesturing to the cases. "Those of you who are serious about this, step forward. We'll go over the operational details, establish communication protocols, and assign routes. The rest of you..."
I looked directly at the five hanging back, my gaze flat and assessing.
"If you're not interested, that's fine. But you'll need to leave the plaza now. This discussion is for members only."
The five exchanged nervous glances. One of them—a short, stocky man with a nervous twitch—spoke up.
"We... we'd like to be part of it. But we need time to think. This is a big decision, and—"
"Then take your time somewhere else," I interrupted, keeping my voice level. "Come back when you've decided. But the initial planning happens tonight, with people who are committed."
'And when you come back—if you come back—I'll know exactly how serious you are about this. Or more likely, you'll disappear with that case of fake gold I'm about to give you, and I'll deal with you later.'
I reached into my Dimensional Bag again, this time pulling out a single case—one I'd prepared specifically for this scenario. Inside was gold-painted lead, good enough to fool a cursory inspection but worthless if they actually tried to cash it.
"Take this," I said, handing the case to the nervous man. "Split it between yourselves as a gesture of good faith. But understand—if you decide to join later, you'll be starting from the bottom. The people who commit tonight get priority assignments and better compensation."
The five practically scrambled to take the case, their greed evident in how quickly they left the plaza. My Mantra tracked them until they were well out of earshot, confirming what I already knew—they had no intention of returning.
'And that's five problems that will solve themselves later. Though I'll need to track them down eventually, and ensure they don't become loose ends. But that's tomorrow's problem.'
For now, I had around twenty-five bounty hunters standing in front of me, all genuinely interested in building something new from the ashes of their failed Baroque Works operation.
"Alright," I said, settling into what was clearly going to be a long planning session. "Let's talk specifics."
The next hour was spent working out operational details with the kind of careful precision that came from knowing a single mistake could compromise the entire network.
Mr. 9 proved surprisingly competent at tactical planning, suggesting cover identities and infiltration strategies. Miss Monday contributed practical concerns about supplies, communication security, and emergency protocols.
The others added their own expertise—one had experience with Den Den Mushi encryption, another knew about some smuggling routes throughout Paradise, and a third had contacts in several port towns that could provide legitimate cover businesses.
'This... might actually work. These people aren't just desperate criminals—they're experienced professionals who got caught up in a larger game. Give them proper direction and resources, and they could build something genuinely useful.'
We were discussing communication codes when I felt something strange.
SHIMMER! APPEAR!
My Stand, The Box, the one that only appeared when I consciously summoned it, suddenly materialized in front of me without any prompting on my part.
It wasn't doing anything, just floating in front of me silently, like it was waiting for something…or…sensed something…?
I'd never seen it behave like this before.
"Mmm, sir…?" One of the bounty hunters asked in hesitation. "Is this…is this supposed to be normal?"
I was bewildered at his question, not knowing what my reaction should be.
'They…could see my Stand…?'
However, the bounty hunters weren't looking at my Stand. Their eyes were fixed on my waist, specifically on the Sword of Gryffindor hanging at my side.
I followed their gaze and immediately saw why.
The sword was glowing. Not brightly, but with a soft, silvery radiance that pulsed with steady rhythm like a heartbeat. The same pulsing sensation I'd felt earlier when fighting Karoo, except now it was visible to everyone.
PULSE! SHINE! PULSE!
"Your sword," Mr. 9 said, his voice carrying genuine awe mixed with wariness. "What's it doing?"
'Excellent question. One I'd very much like the answer to myself.'
I reached down and unsheathed the Sword of Gryffindor slowly, feeling the weight settle into my hand. The moment the blade cleared its scabbard, the glowing intensified, and—
An inspiration appeared in my mind. Not words, not images, not even information, but pure instinctual understanding transmitted directly from the sword into my consciousness.
It was like the blade was communicating, except without language, conveying concepts and capabilities directly into my awareness.
The Sword Could Cut Ghosts Now.
Not metaphorically or symbolically. Literally cut supernatural entities that existed in intangible states—spirits, ghosts, possession-type Devil Fruit powers.
Things that normal blades would pass through harmlessly, this sword could now affect as if they were solid matter.
'That's... actually incredible. And explains why it was pulsing when I fought Karoo. The duck's ghost-type Devil Fruit power somehow triggered this evolution. The sword recognized a supernatural threat and adapted to counter it.'
"Hachiman? What's wrong?" Usopp asked, his voice was laced with cowardly concern. "Did something happen to the sword?"
I held the blade up, watching the silvery light play across its surface. The craftsmanship was beautiful—the magically forged metal that seemed to absorb and reflect moonlight simultaneously.
"The sword can cut intangible entities now," I explained, because everyone was staring, and I might as well satisfy their curiosity.
"Ghosts, spirits, Devil Fruit powers that create intangible states. Things that normal weapons can't touch."
"Like that duck?" Zoro's voice carried interest rather than concern. "The one that could turn into a ghost and possess objects?"
"Exactly like that," I confirmed. "The sword adapted to counter that ability. Evolved, maybe? I'm not entirely sure how it works, but—"
'Eh???'
Movement in my peripheral vision made me stop mid-sentence.
My head snapped to the left, toward the buildings that lined the plaza. And there, standing atop a particularly tall structure, was a figure.
A Figure Wearing a Wizard's Cloak and Hat.
Just like me.
RUSTLE!
The moonlight caught the fabric of their cloak as it billowed in the night breeze. The wide-brimmed hat cast their face in shadow, but I could feel their attention focused directly on me with laser-like intensity.
My Mantra pinged immediately—a presence I should have detected minutes ago but somehow missed until this exact moment. How had they gotten that close without me noticing?
'What. What is that? Who is that? Why are they dressed like me? Is this some kind of weird mirror universe situation, because I really don't need that kind of metaphysical complication right now.'
The figure stood perfectly still, their posture suggesting observation rather than immediate threat. But there was something about them—something in how they held themselves, how they'd appeared exactly when my sword revealed its new power—that set every instinct I had screaming warnings.
"Hachiman?" Nami's voice was tense. "Who is that?"
"I…have absolutely no idea," I replied, keeping my voice level despite the confusion racing through my mind.
The figure on the rooftop tilted their head slightly, acknowledging that I'd spotted them.
The figure stood there for another moment, their attention focused on me with unnerving intensity.
BUZZ! VANISH!
Then, without warning or explanation, they turned and disappeared.
The way they disappeared was like this was a static glitch in a screen that just corrected itself.
'What…the hell…was that…?'
…
A/N: This is the first step for Haciman to establish his own organization.
But well, That's it for now.
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