Inside the silent, dark basement, lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a dim, dancing light across the walls. The only sound was the faint clicking of an old Recording Dial on a wooden table, playing a classical piano piece, its sound worn and faded with time. Some notes faltered, raspy, like a worn-out tape struggling to keep playing.
Beside it, two Den Den Mushi slept silently, their antennae occasionally twitching, as if dreaming of calls long past.
The smell of disinfectant stung the nostrils, mixed subtly with the aroma of dried iron, creating an unpleasant combination.
The walls and floor were lined with taut, transparent plastic, forming a slick surface that reflected the lantern light, creating the illusion of a room larger and colder than it actually was.
Miranda sat in an iron chair, her long legs crossed casually. Her fingers tapped the table in time with the music, her eyes half-closed, her mind replaying the image of the piano player, trying to capture the essence of a long-lost melody.
At the far end of the room, a muffled, broken sound came from someone gagged with cloth.
The victim was tied to another chair with thick ropes, his body trembling slightly, fear radiating from every pore.
A small wooden board hung on his chest, with the symbol of the Children of the Wave neatly engraved, marking him as tonight's "offering."
A spy from the Donquixote pirates, caught in an invisible web.
Amidst the raspy clicks of the old piano, a soft trill broke the silence.
One of the Den Den Mushi on the table—a standard model issued to Marine officers of Captain rank and above—vibrated, its antenna standing upright, and slowly transformed its face to resemble its owner. A firm jawline, a scar on his cheek, and an unwavering expression of confidence: Admiral Zephyr.
Miranda picked it up, holding it close to her lips. "Lieuttenantt Miranda Hellblade, sire."
Zephyr's heavy laughter sounded, warm yet carrying the authority of a respected leader. "How is Loguetown?"
Miranda shifted her gaze to a small map on the table, her finger tracing the lines that depicted the city's streets and buildings. "De portt situation s'good, al'clear. Ship traffic s'normal, but patrols report'n increas O'number O'ships w'outt official flags. Regardin de investigation O'de mysterious deaths… s'far, I have found no definitive leads. De latest victim was found o'side de city, de wound patterns similar to de previous ones, but de location n' timin are random. Me still combing through de possibility o'local group involvement."
"Hm…" Zephyr murmured briefly, sounding thoughtful. "Don't rush to conclusions, Miranda. Sometimes the best enemy is the one who makes us believe they don't exist."
"Aye, sire," Miranda replied obediently, her voice calm and controlled.
A moment of silence, then Zephyr's tone shifted to a more relaxed one, as if switching to a personal conversation. "By the way, have you tried the blue fin tuna pizza that's been so popular lately?"
Miranda smiled thinly, "Already on me desk, sire. Me enjoying de pizza now."
"Good," Zephyr's voice sounded satisfied, "Enjoy your dinner. I just wanted to check in on you."
Click. The connection was cut. The Den Den Mushi fell back asleep, its antenna drooping limply.
Without changing her expression, Miranda reached for the other Den Den Mushi—its shell a dark blue, decorated with a neatly carved whirlpool symbol, reminiscent of the unpredictable power of the sea. Her eyes narrowed slightly, vigilance radiating from her gaze.
"Preacher, speaking," she said flatly, her voice as cold as ice.
Instantly, the Den Den Mushi transformed again, taking on Zephyr's face… but not Zephyr the Admiral, but Zephyr as the Bishop of Iron—eyes sharper, lips twisted in a chilling smile, an entirely different aura, radiating power and fanaticism.
"Report," the heavy voice now contained a ritualistic tone, as if every word was an absolute command that could not be disobeyed.
Miranda—or Preacher Miranda—lowered her head slightly, giving a salute in the midst of the basement's stench of iron and disinfectant. "They arrived in Loguetown this afternoon, Your Excellency."
"Halt all activities in the East Blue for the time being. And… what about the boy?" The Bishop of Iron's voice sounded cold, like newly sharpened metal, ready to cut down anything that stood in its way.
"Smoker is becoming suspicious, Your Excellency. Should I add him to the list of offerings?" Miranda asked, her tone flat, as if discussing the weather, without emotion or hesitation.
Zephyr paused for a moment, then answered slowly, each word chosen carefully, as if weighing the consequences of every decision. "He is not a criminal… or a blasphemer, Preacher. If he continues to interfere in this case, eliminate him—without pain."
"As you wish, Your Excellency. Any other orders?"
"Yes. I will issue direct orders, approved by Sengoku, for you to accompany Guts around the Blue Seas. Let's call it… a preventative measure, to ensure that the chaos in Loguetown is not repeated."
Click. The blue Den Den Mushi fell back asleep, its antenna drooping lazily. The basement was silent again except for the raspy clicks of the old piano, its notes occasionally faltering, creating an increasingly chilling atmosphere.
Miranda took a deep breath, then stood up slowly. The iron chair she sat on scraped against the plastic floor, creating a creaking sound that made the Donquixote spy at the end of the room even more restless, realizing that his time was drawing near.
She reached for her giant sashimi knife from the table, its blade gleaming faintly in the lantern light, radiating an aura of inevitable death.
Her steps were quiet, measured, each heel strike echoing off the narrow walls, creating a terrifying rhythm.
When she stood in front of the victim, she looked down slightly… smiling, but her eyes remained cold, without mercy. Then, in a low tone that gradually rose, Miranda began to chant:
"The tide rises, the tide pulls,
The price is paid in blood and salt.
The current drowns the blasphemer's plea,
The depths will claim the sinner's fee.
Our hands will buy our place,
Our hands will seal their fate.
Lady of the Sea, Lady of the Tide,
Open the gates, let our souls inside!
For we are the Children of the Waves."
Each verse made her eyes shine even brighter, as if something far darker dwelled behind that gaze, an ancient power hungry for sacrifice. The victim tried to scream behind the gag, but only muffled sounds came out, futile pleas. Miranda lowered her head, her lips moving as if giving a final prayer—then the lantern light reflected off the knife blade, signaling the inevitable end.
Miranda stepped slowly, her boots creaking on the slick plastic floor. She stopped in front of the bound man, then grabbed his mouth, forcibly pulling out the cloth gag soaked with saliva.
"You're like cockroaches… everywhere," her voice was flat, almost lazy, as if killing was a routine, boring task. "Go on, scream. No one will hear."
"I… I… I'll tell you everything…" the man's voice broke, his body trembling violently, trying to find a way to save himself.
"You think this is an interrogation room?"
The knife blade pierced the man's thigh without warning, cutting through flesh and nerves with terrifying precision.
"AAARRGH!" His scream echoed off the plastic walls, filling the room with pain and despair.
"Then… what do you want!?"
Miranda didn't answer. She turned, walked casually to the wall, and began to remove her clothes one by one until she was left in her underwear, revealing the scars that adorned her body, proof of the battles she had fought. From a hanger on the wall, she took a long, dark raincoat and put it on, hiding herself in darkness. Her fingers reached for the featureless black mask that hung beside it—completely covering her face, transforming her into a faceless figure, the embodiment of terror.
"Please… please… I have a wife… my child is still young…" the man's voice began to rasp, his breath ragged, realizing that he had no hope left. He knew exactly where all this would end.
Miranda snorted softly. "Classic."
She came back closer, pulling the knife from his thigh. Blood gushed out, staining the plastic floor, creating a gruesome pattern.
"Everyone has a family," she said softly, "including the victims you killed."
Her hand reached out, grabbing the victim's hair roughly, forcing his head to look up, revealing his terrified face. Then the blade went in—slowly—into one of his eyes. A scream of agony filled the room, interspersed with the wet, sharp sound as Miranda gouged out the eyeball with terrifying precision, without mercy.
She lifted the result in front of the man's face, showing him what she had taken. "You have eyes… but you can't see the goodness of the world."
Miranda looked at the eyeball she had just gouged out, blood dripping from the tip of her knife, like tears she could never shed.
She dropped it onto the plastic floor with a wet plop, a sound that echoed in the silence.
She gouged out the other eye skillfully, accompanied by the man's screams.
Then her left hand moved quickly, grabbing the man's ear, pulling it hard until the victim's face was forced to turn, revealing his vulnerable neck.
"You have ears…" she whispered very close, her voice piercing, "…but you are deaf. You don't hear the beautiful lapping of the waves."
The knife flashed quickly—srek—and the man's ear was severed, falling beside his eyes on the floor, forming a gruesome collection of what had been lost.
The scream deafened the room, but Miranda only sighed, as if hearing something more beautiful than the sound of that pain, a melody of death that satisfied her soul.
"Please… please… I beg you…!" the man cried, half crying, half roaring, begging for mercy from the faceless figure.
Miranda didn't answer. Her hand worked again, reaching for the other ear, pulling, and—srek—separating it from the victim's head. The man's body shook weakly, blood flowing heavily, soaking the plastic beneath him, turning it into a horrifying red pool.
She stood up straight, taking a long breath, then looked at the victim. Behind her black mask, her lips began to move softly, chanting the sacred words, for the second times, that swallowed the atmosphere of the basement:
"The tide rises, the tide pulls,
lanterns swing gently, shadows move on the wall
The price is paid in blood and salt.
blood from the victim's ears and eyes flows, forming strange patterns on the plastic floor
The current drowns the blasphemer's plea,
the man's scream is muffled, as if sucked into the silence of the basement
The depths will claim the sinner's fee.
Miranda presses her knife to the table, blood dripping between her fingers
Our hands will buy our place,
she picks up one of the severed ears and looks at it like a trophy
Our hands will seal their fate.
her knife scratches the symbol of the Children of the Wave on the surface of the table
Lady of the Sea, Lady of the Tide,
the piano recording plays a high, broken note in the middle
Open the gates, let our souls inside!
Miranda closes her eyes, raising both her blood-soaked hands
For we are the Children of the Waves."
the last note from the recording dial dies, leaving a chilling silence
The silence was broken only by the victim's remaining breaths, ragged, heavy, like a final whisper before eternal darkness.
Miranda looked at him for a few seconds, then sighed like someone who had just finished a light workout, releasing the tension from her body.
Without hurrying, she turned the Recording Dial back on, letting the clicking of the classical piano fill the dimly lit basement, creating a terrible contrast to what had just happened.
Her steps shifted to a small shelf in the corner, taking a black canvas bag and a metal box containing stainless steel tools that gleamed under the lantern light, instruments of a terrible ritual.
She began to work.
One movement, one breath. The knife glided, slicing with precision, following the lines of anatomy with terrifying knowledge. Blood flowed, leaving a gurgling sound from the man, until it stopped completely, signaling the end of his suffering.
The bonds on his hands and feet were released one by one, the lifeless body lifted easily and moved to the iron table lined with plastic.
Knife changed for knife. Each cut clean, efficient, without mercy. Not a drop of blood escaped the confines of the plastic floor, maintaining the sanctity of the room.
Organ after organ was transferred to small vacuum bags, sealed tightly, then arranged neatly into the canvas bag like someone packing weekly groceries, a horrifying routine.
A lever under the table was pressed—the surface rotated slowly, revealing the other side, clean and covered with new plastic, ready for the next step.
The body was moved again. The bloodstains disappeared beneath the table, dissolving into a holding tank full of disinfectant fluid, cleansing the sins that had been committed.
The skin was carefully removed, folded, then placed in a separate ice box, keeping it fresh for unknown purposes. There were no wasted movements, every action had a purpose, every detail was attended to.
The piano recording continued to play, accompanying the soft humming from her lips, a melody of death that soothed her soul as she put what left of the man inside the body bag.
One by one, the stained plastic walls were rolled up and replaced with new sheets from a large roll in the corner, erasing the traces of violence.
The basement was back to its original state—silent, sterile, leaving only the scent of disinfectant and the dim lantern light, a room that had witnessed horror but still maintained its innocent appearance.
Before going up, she took off her mask, looking at the reflection of her face in a small mirror. She tidied up a stray strand of hair, then a thin smile appeared, the smile of a murderer satisfied with her work.
Click—the door closed. The Recording Dial stopped turning, the light went out, leaving the room as if it had never been a place of death, a secret buried in darkness.