When we returned to my cell, I paused in front of the empty one beside mine, my eyes lingering on its iron bars.
"Jamie… can you put some of the food in there?" I asked, handing him the leather bag. I hadn't even checked its contents yet, but from the weight and smell, it had to be good.
"Sure thing." Jamie took the bag and unlocked the sisters' cell, setting part of the haul inside.
Inside the bag was more than I expected: soft brown bread—not stale, not moldy, but fresh. A few cuts of roasted chicken, crisp salad, and a scatter of fruit. Mostly bananas and apples, but tucked among them were pineapples and other rarer treats.
Even though it was probably just ordinary food outside these walls, for me—for us—it was a luxury beyond measure. Jamie stepped out of the sisters' cell and handed me the rest of the bag. Lighter now, but still heavy enough to last me the day.
When I finally stepped back into my own cell and Jamie said his goodbye, the first thing I did wasn't eat. Instead, I crouched in the far corner, where the concrete had long since cracked and peeled. My fingers dug at the loose edge, prying it open just wide enough. Carefully, I slid the small powder pouch inside, tucking it away as though hiding a piece of my soul. Then I pressed the stone back into place, sealing the secret before anyone could notice.
With a weight lifted from my shoulders, I finally sat down with the food, tearing into it while my thoughts drifted elsewhere. What should I even do with the time I've been given now? I can't exactly wander outside my cell—the iron bars are both my cage and my boundary. That alone makes training Observation Haki almost impossible; it's hard to sharpen awareness when your entire world is no larger than a closet.
Maybe… I should ask Draven about Armament. If the training is something I can do in a room like this, then I could actually grow stronger, instead of wasting away with nothing but push-ups and the same old power drills.
Thoughts of training vanished, replaced by the faces of the new people I met today—the captain, and Jamie. Especially Jamie, as he called himself. A name I knew was fake, revealed by my ability when he said it. That alone was enough to tell me: he was here because he needed to be, not because he couldn't leave. He had his own reasons for lingering in a place like this, reasons he wouldn't reveal unless forced to, even though he lied about his name and might have his own agenda. But as long as he helped me, I could trust him because in this place, almost everyone except the slaves had their own agenda.
So what difference does it make if his name is a fake, if his intentions are ambiguous? As long as his hand pushes me forward instead of dragging me down, I can accept it. Trust is not something I can buy in this place—but an alliance, however fragile it may be, is something I can use to my advantage.
Before I realized it, the food was gone. Not just the portion meant for an afternoon meal—but everything, the entire day's worth. I'd devoured it without a second thought, shoveling it down like a starving animal. It was the first real food I'd tasted in this world, and the moment it touched my tongue, restraint became impossible. Bite after bite disappeared until nothing remained.
"Eh, whatever. Not the first time I've starved." I muttered to myself. A day without food wasn't the end of the world—I'd done it before and survived.
With nothing else to do and the sun still hanging high in the sky, I started shadowboxing, throwing jab after jab into the stale air. Push-ups and other basic drills felt pointless; I worked every day hauling weights I could barely handle, and the progress from that kind of training was always sluggish, especially without adding resistance.
I couldn't help but think of Zoro. That lunatic didn't waste time with standard routines—he was out there casually benching dumbbells with the letter T's in it. Compared to that, what was I even doing?
I kept at the shadowboxing until the sun finally lowered itself, hiding its grace behind the horizon. My arms were heavy, sweat clinging to my skin, but the routine dulled the boredom. That was when a faint clanking reached my ears from the cell beside mine.
Instinctively, I edged closer to the wall that divided us, pressing my ear against the cold stone. I could hear faint gasps, hurried whispers—the kind you made when something unexpected appeared. The food, I supposed.
"Hancock, you there?" I broke the silence first, my voice low.
There was a pause, then her familiar voice answered, soft but trembling with something she tried to hide. "Eh? V? You're back already?"
She meant it as a surprised question, but the concern woven into her tone was impossible to miss.
"Yeah, I got a break… I suppose." I tried to keep my voice calm, steady—gentle even. The last thing I wanted was to alarm Hancock or her sisters.
"Are you okay? Why did you get a break?" Her voice was quick, anxious, pushing for answers.
…Great. That made it worse.
"Don't worry. I'm not hurt. At least… not unintentionally."
The words slipped out heavier than I wanted. I wished I could phrase it better, soften it somehow. But how was I supposed to tell her the truth—that I had been branded again, willingly this time—without stopping her heart in the process?
"Oh my god, what did they do to you this time?" Yep. She sounded really worried now.
"No, it's nothing like that. I… got a different job this time. Better pay, better treatment. And I even got to tattoo the initials of the people who matter most to me." I tried to make it sound light, even hopeful. Did it sound better? I honestly had no clue. I just hoped it didn't sound worse.
"You can't tell me what your new job is, can you?" Sharp as ever. She caught on quick. If the terms sounded good, then the job itself couldn't be.
"Yeah, something like that," I admitted, forcing calm into my voice. "But don't worry—it's under my control."
Actually, the job isn't that bad. All I need to do is hide some drugs for the captain. The real issue comes from the consequences if anyone finds out.
"And one of the perks is better food. I left some in your cell," I told her, so she'd finally know where the mystery meals were coming from.
"Is it… okay?" Her voice carried guilt, like she thought she'd stolen something I'd worked myself bloody for.
"Yeah, I've got plenty. More than I can finish, honestly," I said quickly, trying to ease her mind.
"I'll pay you back later."
"Don't bother."
After that, I kept talking to Hancock—trying to ease her worries, convincing her that my new "job" wasn't dangerous, and softening the guilt she still felt over the food. Eventually, the conversation drifted back to my hand.
"You said you got a tattoo? How did that happen?" she asked. Ah, she remembered. Honestly, I'd rather stick to the tattoo part of the story and not mention the branding at all.
"Yeah," I answered, lifting my hand a little though she couldn't see it. "I got the initials of my mother, my father, my sister… and even my cats, all inked here. That way, I can remember them no matter what."
"Is there even a tattoo artist in the city?" she asked with childlike wonder, because even though she had gone to the city a few times, she never wandered around, and I bet she always lowered her head when walking, so she didn't seem familiar with the city at all.
"Yeah," I said, keeping my tone casual. "They've got all kinds of shops out there—restaurants, fashion stores… even a pet shop, you know."
The truth? I had no idea. I hadn't exactly gone sightseeing myself. But it sounded reasonable enough. Restaurants were a safe bet, fashion stores too. And with all the exotic animals I'd glimpsed today, I'd bet at least some of them ended up for sale.
"I want to have a pet too someday."
Her voice carried a fragile hope, the kind that was too delicate for a place like this. Still, that kind of talk—dreams, little fantasies of a life beyond—was the closest thing we had to heaven in this hell. I always liked when she slipped into that tone. It reminded me she was still just a girl.
"I think a snake suits you, Hancock," I said, smirking to myself. Salome—her future partner in crime. Of course, only I got the joke. For her, it was just another random tease.
"You sound like Elder Nyon, you know," she shot back. "She's always going on about snakes this, snakes that, to everyone on the island."
Her voice was sharp with annoyance, but beneath it there was something else—a hint of longing, as if even the thought of Elder Nyon's nagging had become something she missed.
"Really? Why is that? Is the snake some kind of mascot on your island?" I asked, genuinely curious. The Kuja always had snakes—on their clothes, as weapons, even as pets. So I wanted to know the reason.
"Yeah… everyone uses snakes as makeshift bows, so they sorta became a mascot of the island." She paused, thinking, her voice uncertain. "But I don't know if there's something deeper to it, or some old story behind why it's always snakes."
"Really? Sounds cool, using a snake as a makeshift bow." I said it like I'd never heard of it before, though I already knew. Better to let her tell it.
"I know, right? I always wanted my own snake pet too… maybe it's because of Elder Nyon's influence. But I really like snakes." She sounded almost dreamy as she said it, then perked up. "How about you? You said you have a cat, right?"
"Yeah. My family had a cat. We named him John-Cat. After I moved out, I adopted one of his kittens and called him John-Kid."
Hancock gave a small laugh. "That's a funny name."
"Well, cats don't care what you call them anyway. They just do whatever they want," I replied with a half-smile.
We kept talking until the moon was already high, silver light leaking in through the cracks of the cell's walls. Then the sound of iron scraping against iron broke the calm—my cell door opened, and in stepped Darius.
"Sorry, Hancock," I said, pushing myself up. "I need to talk to Darius first."
Then I hear her voice. "It's okay. You go first, then." Even though I can't see her, I imagine she gave me a small nod.
"I'll tell you guys a story before sleep later, alright?" I added, trying to lighten her a little.
With that, I crossed the cell. Darius was already in the corner, yawning without a shred of concern. He leaned back against the wall, lazy but sharp-eyed.
"So," he rumbled, his voice rough but steady, "what kind of job did you get?"
His gaze flicked down, not to my face, not to my stance, but to my hand. More specifically—the new marks burned there.
My tattoo. Or at least, that's what I was calling it.
"Just to hide some drugs," I told him. Darius wasn't like Hancock—I could afford to be blunt with him. He was my mentor, and if anyone knew what to do with this kind of information, it'd be him. Maybe someday it'd even come in handy.
"Where's the drugs right now?" he asked, voice calm but eyes narrowing. "It in this cell?"
"It's on your ass, actually."
One of his brows climbed, slow and threatening. His gaze said it plain: explain yourself, boy, or tomorrow's training is going to be hell.
"I mean it," I added with a deadpan stare. "It's literally under your ass. You're sitting on it."
For a man his size, he moved fast. Darius sprang to his feet like the floor had caught fire, his expression shifting from suspicion to shock. "Oh shit, really?"
"Yeah. Let me show you."
I crouched down, dug at the spot, lifted just enough of the hidden powder for him to see the truth of it, then tucked it back in place.
He exhaled sharply, a low whistle caught between disbelief and respect. "Alright… so that's it? Just hiding some powder?"
"For now," I said, dusting my hands.