The courtyard glimmered beneath the midday sun, its polished stone path spotless despite the dozens of chained slaves scrubbing under the lash of overseers. Malik knelt among them, his wrists raw beneath his shackles, fingers aching as he worked. The air was thick with heat and salt carried from the sea, mingled with the faint stench of blood that never quite washed away.
A whip cracked nearby. Someone yelped, a boy about Malik's age crumpling under the blow. Malik didn't look up. He didn't need to. He'd already memorized the rhythm of that particular guard's cruelty, the way he lashed out when boredom gnawed at him. Malik's hands never slowed, scrubbing in precise, practiced circles as he kept his head down and his mismatched eyes half shielded by braids.
"Faster, filth," the guard barked.
Malik complied, expression calm, body obedient. Inside, he was counting. Every strike. Every guard. Every shadow cast by the sun at this hour. His mind worked quietly, constantly.
The Celestial Dragon estate was a monument to arrogance. Gold trimmed statues lined the courtyard, their cold stone gazes fixed on the slaves who scurried below. Malik had long since memorized the patrol routes of the marines stationed here, every guard's habit, every blind spot in the estate's walls, every door he wasn't allowed to see behind.
There were always more guards than seemed necessary. Always rifles slung lazily over shoulders, always chains that glimmered faintly with intricate designs. Malik had touched one once and felt a faint warmth seastone worked into the metal.
He filed that detail away too.
At night, the cells reeked of damp stone and unwashed bodies. Torchlight flickered along the walls, dancing over the faces of broken men and women who barely looked human anymore. Malik sat in his usual corner, knees drawn up, his wrists resting loosely on his knees despite the shackles' weight.
He didn't sleep. He rarely did. Sleep was a luxury he'd long abandoned.
Instead, he listened.
The sound of dripping water. The rattle of chains when someone shifted in their sleep. The faint clank of armor outside as guards patrolled the corridor. His senses were sharp, animalistic. He could map the entire cell block in his head based solely on sound.
"Hey," a whisper came from nearby.
Malik turned his head slightly. A gaunt boy with hollow cheeks stared back at him, eyes wide and fearful. "You're not normal," the boy whispered.
Malik tilted his head, amused by the honesty.
"No," he said quietly.
The boy swallowed hard, shrinking away, and Malik leaned back against the wall again. He wasn't cruel to the other slaves, but he didn't make friends either. He was an island in the sea of misery a boy who observed more than he spoke, who looked at guards like prey and nobles like obstacles rather than gods.
The next day brought visitors.
A Celestial Dragon descended the estate's grand steps, draped in layers of silk and jewels, a mask covering his face. His arrival made the guards straighten immediately, their rifles snapping to attention. The slaves were forced to their knees. Malik knelt with them, his gaze fixed on the polished stone beneath him, but his ears caught every word.
"I am displeased," the noble drawled, his voice muffled by the mask. "One of my guests last week mentioned that the boy with the strange eyes was… unsettling. We can't have that."
Malik's chains rattled softly as a guard yanked him upright. He didn't resist, his face carefully blank as the noble studied him like a specimen.
"Yes," the noble said after a moment, tilting his head. "Unpleasant. Mark him for auction. If no one buys him, feed him to the dogs."
The guard nodded and shoved Malik back down. Malik lowered his gaze again, hiding the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.
An auction.
More opportunities.
That night, Malik sat awake in his corner, watching the moonlight spill through the narrow slit of a window high above. His fingers idly traced the chain links binding his wrists. He was small enough to slip through gaps others couldn't. He'd memorized the guards' shifts.
But he wasn't ready yet.
Patience.
His gaze shifted toward the ceiling, toward where he knew the Devil Fruit was locked away. Its presence was stronger than ever now, like a faint hum beneath his skin. Malik closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The fruit was important. He could feel it in his bones. It was meant for him.
Days turned to weeks. Malik's reputation among the guards grew quietly. They didn't talk about it openly, but they stopped standing too close to him. Stopped looking him in the eye for too long.
He'd never spoken a word of defiance. He never resisted orders. Yet his silence weighed on them heavier than chains.
"Creepy little bastard," one marine muttered under his breath, too low for most to hear. Malik heard it anyway.
One evening, the tension finally snapped.
A guard dragged a young girl into the courtyard, throwing her to the ground. She'd spilled water from a jug, and that was enough to earn a beating. The guard raised his baton, sneering.
Malik didn't move.
His expression stayed calm, detached even, but his mismatched eyes followed every motion. The girl sobbed, curling into herself, but Malik didn't interfere. Not yet.
When the guard's gaze met Malik's, he froze for half a second. The boy's face was blank, but his eyes burned cold.
The guard lowered the baton without realizing it. He spat on the ground and shoved the girl away instead.
Malik's lips curved slightly. He'd learned something valuable. He didn't have power yet not in strength. But fear? Fear was already his ally.
Later, Malik sat alone in the cell, his gaze fixed on the moonlight cutting through the bars. He could feel the tide shifting, even if no one else could. The guards were growing uneasy. The nobles were wary.
And the fruit… its presence pulsed stronger each day, calling to him like a heartbeat in the dark.
Malik exhaled slowly, resting his head back against the wall, his expression calm. But inside, the storm was building.
Not tonight. Not yet.
But soon.
And when the time came, there would be no chains, no overseers, no masters left standing.