The auction house smelled of wealth and fear. Incense curled lazily through the air, doing little to mask the stink of bodies and desperation. Gilded chandeliers cast warm light over velvet-lined seats where nobles lounged in jeweled masks, sipping wine and whispering behind gloved hands. Marines lined the walls, rifles polished and ready, their faces impassive as slaves were paraded onto the stage one by one.
Malik knelt in a narrow cage at the far end of the platform, chains biting into his wrists and ankles. He ignored the ache in his body, his mismatched eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation. Every detail was filed away: the lazy confidence of the guards, the proximity of the nobles, the rhythm of the auctioneer's voice.
This was a market of flesh and chains, but Malik didn't see himself as the merchandise. He was a predator behind bars, and these people didn't realize their hands were already inside the cage.
"Lot twenty three," the auctioneer announced, his voice smooth and practiced. "A rare one indeed. Healthy, strong, and… exotic." He gestured to Malik with a flourish. "Feast your eyes upon this prize!"
Two guards hauled Malik forward, shoving him onto the stage. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the light struck his features. His dark skin, the faint scars that mapped his body like a roadmap of violence, and most of all, his mismatched eyes.
Crimson and toxic green. Both unblinking. Both cutting through the gilded hall like knives.
"Not a mark on him," one noble murmured.
"Strange eyes," another whispered, "they look almost… unnatural."
The auctioneer smiled wider at their intrigue. "A unique addition to any collection. Starting bid—"
Malik's gaze swept the room again, resting briefly on a door to the left of the stage. He'd seen guards slip through there earlier, carrying a lockbox carved with a sigil he recognized. The Devil Fruit. He could feel its pulse even from here, a faint hum in his blood.
That was his.
"Fifty thousand!"
"Seventy!"
"Eighty five!"
The numbers climbed, and Malik lowered his gaze, feigning submission. In his mind, he traced his plan again and again. The guard on his left kept his rifle slung too low. The one on the right had a bad knee; Malik had seen him limp earlier. Their formation was sloppy they weren't expecting resistance.
The auctioneer's voice droned on. "One hundred twenty thousand beli—"
Malik moved.
The chains rattled, and the guard on his left barely had time to gasp before Malik twisted, yanking the chain at his wrists taut around the man's throat. With a brutal jerk, the guard's neck snapped audibly, his body collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
Chaos erupted.
"Shoot him!" someone screamed.
Malik was already in motion, dragging the fallen guard's rifle free and swinging it like a staff. The butt of the weapon slammed into the second guard's temple with a sickening crack, dropping him instantly.
Gunfire roared. Malik dove behind the guard's body, using him as a shield as bullets tore through flesh and velvet curtains. Nobles shrieked, scattering, their jeweled masks clattering to the ground.
Malik's eyes burned, his focus razor-sharp. He swung his chains like a whip, catching a marine's arm and yanking him forward before smashing his skull into the stage steps.
The world narrowed to movement and instinct. Each strike was brutal, efficient. He fought like someone who had spent years studying violence from the ground up, like every whip crack and beating he'd endured had etched lessons into his bones.
The auctioneer fumbled for a den den mushi to call reinforcements. Malik vaulted over the counter and drove a chain wrapped fist into his jaw, silencing him.
Gunfire slowed as panic spread. Marines hesitated; nobles fled. Malik snatched the key ring from the auctioneer's belt, unlocking his shackles with a sharp click. The weight fell from his limbs, and for the first time in years, he stood unbound.
The room went still for a moment. Malik stood at the center of the carnage, his breathing steady, eyes glowing faintly in the flickering light. Chains dangled from his wrists, slick with blood.
A guard burst through the side door, shouting for backup. Malik's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. The guard froze mid step. That oppressive aura rolled off Malik like a crashing wave his presence overwhelming and heavy, primal and suffocating.
Malik moved before the man could raise his weapon, closing the distance in a blink. A vicious elbow strike sent the guard crumpling to the floor. Malik slipped through the open door without a sound.
Inside, the room was lined with lockboxes. In the center, under glass, sat the Devil Fruit. Its strange patterns swirled in impossible shapes, like they were shifting even as he stared.
He reached out and smashed the glass with the butt of his stolen rifle, snatching the fruit. Its scent was sharp and bitter, filling his senses as he sank his teeth into its flesh.
The taste was revolting.
It was like chewing ash and bile, like swallowing a scream. Malik gagged, forcing himself to devour the entire fruit, every last piece of its twisted flesh.
The moment he swallowed the final bite, his body convulsed. Heat surged through his veins, a burning pressure that threatened to tear him apart. He staggered, gripping the edge of the table as his vision blurred, the room spinning around him.
It wasn't pain not exactly. It was change. Something ancient and violent stirred deep inside him, roaring awake after centuries of silence.
Malik's mismatched eyes glowed faintly, a flicker of crimson and green light.
Outside, chaos erupted as reinforcements stormed the auction hall. Malik straightened, wiping blood from his mouth, chains clinking softly at his sides.
The Devil Fruit's power pulsed within him, raw and untamed, like a beast testing its cage. Malik exhaled slowly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.
Tonight, the name of this place would be forgotten. Burned into ash.
He stepped back into the auction hall, his presence heavier than ever, oppressive and suffocating. Marines hesitated, fingers trembling on triggers.
Malik raised the chain in his hand like a blade.
The quiet before the storm shattered.