I don't remember what day it is.
Could be a Tuesday. Could be Judgement Day.
Only thing I'm sure of is the taste of rum on my tongue and iron on my wrists. One dulls the world. The other reminds me I'm still in it.
I'm fifteen years old, chained in the Holy Land of Mariejois, property of a noble twit who calls himself Saint Roswald. Been here three years now. Branded, beaten, and paraded like a bloody peacock for his noble friends.
And yet—somehow—I still have this bottle.
"Well, well, well, what is this?" sneers one of the guards, a mountain of a man with a chin like a cracked shell and a brain to match. "You stealin' again, freak?"
I hold the bottle up to the light, admiring the amber swirl like it's a sunset in a better world. "Stealin'?" I echo, slurring slightly. "Heavens, no. I ordered it. Fine vintage. Bartender was slow, so I helped myself. You know how service is in these parts."
They don't laugh.
One of them shoves me to my knees. Another kicks me in the gut.
Still didn't drop the bottle.
"Saint Roswald said no more games," one growls. "You're to perform today. Some nobles want a show. You fight, monkey. You bleed. You don't talk."
I grin, blood trickling from my lip. "But I do talk. It's my best trait, really. That, and not dyin'. Which you've all made terribly difficult, by the way."
---
Later, I'm tossed back into the pit like a refuse. My cell is shared with ghosts—slaves who gave up long ago. Hollow eyes. Empty bellies. Silent tongues.
And then there's the three girls.
The Boa sisters.
Sitting together, backs to the wall. The tall one, the middle, and the youngest—all too still. Too quiet.
I stumble in, still holding the broken neck of the bottle, slurring like it's the only thing I know how to do. "Ladies," I say, bowing as best one can while shackled. "You're a vision. A grim one, mind, but a vision all the same."
The middle one doesn't respond. The youngest flinches. The eldest—Hancock, they call her—stares at me with the kind of loathing usually reserved for rats or nobles.
"Go away," she says flatly.
"Ah, yes, rejection," I reply, sitting cross-legged near the corner. "Been some time since I felt it. Quite refreshing. Keeps the ego in check."
"You're drunk," one mutters.
"Sweetheart, I wish I was. This—" I hold up the broken glass, "—is barely enough to make a bishop sweat."
They don't laugh. No one ever does. But they're listening.
So I keep talking. Stories. Nonsense. Tales about the time I convinced a guard his boot was haunted. Or how I once made a noble cry by calling his wig 'an ambitious ferret.'
Later, I'll get beaten for it. I always do.
But I see it—just for a second—the crack in their silence. A twitch of the lip. A lifted brow.
That's enough.
---
There's a little girl in the next cage.
She smiles all the time. Too much. Like it's stitched onto her face.
Koala.
Seven years old. Been here since she was four.
And today… I found out why.
I saw the marks. I heard what one of the nobles bragged about doing to her. What they made her do.
I dropped my bottle. Didn't even notice.
Then I snap.
No rhythm. No clever words. Just pure, blind fury.
They say I killed five guards that night.
I remember three clearly. The other two? Red smears.
And the noble? The one who smiled while telling me Koala was "finally obedient"?
I almost tore his throat out with my teeth.
They stopped me. Just barely. Put chains on me heavier than a horse could pull.
Saint Roswald was furious. Not because of the deaths. But because his "prize" was nearly lost. Me.
They didn't kill me.
No. They healed me—again—just to keep their toy intact.
But something changed after that.
The slaves started whispering.
Some feared me.
Some respected me.
Koala… she stopped smiling so much. Only around me now. When I call her "little stormcloud" or smuggle her bits of fruit. I never touch alcohol around her.
Ever.
---
And then there's Jinbe.
A wall of muscle, chains, and calm. Talks like the sea itself.
"You're reckless," he tells me, one day. I'm nursing a stolen flask and a cracked rib.
"And you're fishy," I reply, taking a sip. "But we make it work."
He chuckles. Rare thing.
Then Arlong snarls nearby, eyes burning holes through me.
"Human filth," he growls.
"Oh, Arly," I purr, twirling my chain. "If I had a berry for every time you called me that, I'd be able to buy your attitude a proper leash."
He lunges. Jinbe stops him.
I wink. Sip. Hum a tune.
---
It's hell here.
But I survive.
Not because I'm strong—though I am.
Not because I'm clever—though that helps.
I survive because they expect me to break.
And I won't.
Not today.
Not ever.
Now… if I can just find another bottle.
---