AN: I will be changing some things to better fit the story.
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The old man beamed, the deep creases on his face softening with warmth.
"My name... is Red."
Shara...
He tipped the wide brim of his artist's hat, giving a courteous, old-fashioned bow to the four newcomers—a polite gesture that felt oddly out of place for a ragtag group of pirates hauling a half-conscious man through the heart of a strange, uncharted island.
Pintel blinked, glancing between the old man and Ragetti. "...Just Red?"
"Just Red."
"No last name? No 'Red the Blood-Spattered' or anything like that?"
Red chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "One name is plenty."
As the bumbling pirates scratched their heads in confusion, Emporio Ivankov kept his enormous, heavily made-up eyes fixed intently on the old artist.
Something felt... off.
A deep, instinctual shiver ran down his spine. The whole town had been a ghostly wasteland when they crossed the threshold. No wind. No voices.
Just a heavy, suffocating silence.
Pintel glanced around the desolate square, adjusting his grip on the injured Gibbs. "Uh... if people actually live here... WHERE IS EVERYONE?!"
Red tilted his head, his smile unwavering. "Everyone?" He chuckled softly, gesturing to the empty air. "Why, they're right here."
The pirates exchanged puzzled looks. "What do you—"
DON!
Pintel halted mid-sentence, his jaw dropping so low it nearly touched the cobblestones.
The empty, dust-covered streets... suddenly sprang to life.
In the blink of an eye, dozens—no, hundreds—of ordinary townsfolk appeared out of nowhere, strolling along the cobblestone paths.
Children giggled, darting between the whitewashed houses. An elderly woman swept the front of her shop with a rhythmic motion.
Near a fountain, two fishermen animatedly argued over the size of their morning catch, while a blacksmith's hammer began to strike a glowing forge in a steady beat.
The quaint little town seemed like it had been alive and thriving for ages.
Ragetti's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "...When... when did all these people show up?!"
Ivankov spun around, his huge purple afro flying through the air. He scanned the crowd, utterly flabbergasted.
What in the world?!
Just moments ago, there had been no one around.
Now, a whole community of everyday folks was going about their business, completely oblivious to the revolutionary and the strange pirates in their midst.
Red simply grinned, turning away from the chaos. "I told you. They're here."
Pintel shivered, inching closer to Ragetti. "...I don't like this place. It's creepy."
"I agree-vble," Ivankov muttered, a cold sweat forming beneath his heavy makeup.
Every instinct was on high alert. None of this made sense in the Grand Line, and that was saying something.
"Ghh... huff..."
A ragged groan sliced through the tension. On the makeshift stretcher, Gibbs' breathing became shallow, a grim, grey pallor creeping over his face.
Red's cheerful smile vanished in an instant. His eyes sharpened with urgency. "Your friend can't stay out in the open. He needs help right away."
Without waiting for a response, the old artist turned. "My home isn't far. Bring him. Quickly."
Pintel and Ragetti looked up at Ivankov, waiting for direction. The giant okama hesitated for just a moment.
Trusting a mysterious stranger on a ghostly island was a risk—but Gibbs was fading fast.
"Lead the way," Ivankov ordered.
Red's home was perched near the steep, rocky edge of the town.
As they stepped inside, the sheer clutter of the room enveloped them.
Paintings leaned against nearly every inch of wall space, stacked three deep.
Half-finished sculptures of marble and clay filled every corner, frozen in dynamic poses.
Shelves overflowed with a madman's collection of brushes, chisels, ancient books, and bizarre, handcrafted clockwork toys.
What really gave them the creeps was the detail. The eyes of the painted figures seemed astonishingly lifelike.
Too lifelike. It felt like they were watching them.
Ragetti swallowed hard, gripping his cutlass tightly. "...This place is seriously creepy."
"It is?" Red called out, genuinely taken aback as he cleared a space. "I've always thought it was quite cozy."
Pintel carefully laid Gibbs down on a sturdy wooden bed.
Red moved with surprising agility for his age, quickly fetching a basin of warm water and some clean linens. He began to examine the deep, jagged wound across Gibbs' chest with practiced hands.
Ivankov hovered nearby, watching every twitch of the old man's muscles. "You know a bit about medicine?"
"A little," Red murmured, gently dabbing away the dried blood. "Living alone teaches you a lot, including how to patch up broken flesh."
As Red worked, Pintel's nervous anxiety shifted into restless curiosity. He wandered around the workshop, picking up a small wooden carving from a nearby bench.
It was a sleeping cat, crafted with such precision that Pintel half-expected it to purr.
"So..." Pintel grunted, "you made all of these?"
Red nodded proudly, still focused on his patient. "Every single one."
Ragetti pointed toward a massive canvas on a high shelf. "You painted those too?"
"I did."
"And that marble statue?"
"That's mine as well."
"What about that high-backed chair?"
"I built it."
"...The table?"
"Also mine."
"...The whole house?!"
Red chuckled softly. "I had some help with the heavy beams, but mostly, yes."
Pintel leaned in, whispering loudly to Ragetti, "I think the old timer really enjoys making things."
"I noticed. You think he's got a screw loose?"
Red's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "It keeps an old man's mind busy. The world can be dreadfully quiet when you're left alone with your thoughts."
He paused, applying a soothing salve to Gibbs' chest before glancing up at the unusual trio.
"You're not ordinary travelers. The Grand Line attracts many castaways, but you have a different vibe, not like merchants or marines."
"Yes, we are pirates." Pintel said proudly.
"Hah!" Pintel puffed out his chest, shaking off his fear like a wet dog. "We're pirates, old man! The fiercest scallywags to ever sail the seas!"
"I figured as much from the cutlasses," Red replied with a smile. "What do you call your crew?"
"The Caribbean Pirates!" Pintel beamed, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "Our captain came up with the name himself."
"And who is your captain?"
"Captain Jack Sparrow!"
Red rolled the name around in his mouth, testing its flavor. "Jack Sparrow... I must admit, I don't think I've heard of him before. Is he new to the New World?"
Ivankov frowned and stepped closer. "What?! You've never heard of him? Even in isolation, the newspapers—"
"I don't get the World Economic Journal out here," Red interjected softly, carefully wrapping a fresh bandage around Gibbs' torso.
"The outside world... I've been away from it for... quite a while."
Pintel's eyes sparkled with excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Oh! Then you've missed a ton, mate! The Pirate King kicked the bucket! The whole sea's gone completely bonkers! Everyone's ditching their homes to become pirates! We even battled a massive monster of a pirate in Arabasta, and before that, we toppled a corrupt king and saved an entire kingdom!"
Ivankov pinched the bridge of his enormous nose, letting out a heavy sigh. "...You really shouldn't summarize global upheavals like that, Pintel-boy. It sounds way worse than it actually was."
Pintel blinked, unfazed. "But it happened just like that."
"...Fair enough."
Red listened intently, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. A faint, nostalgic smile crept onto his lips. "The world outside certainly hasn't gotten dull. A Great Pirate Era..."
His gaze returned to Gibbs. "And what about this one? Who dealt such a precise, devastating blow?"
"He challenged a swordsman," Ragetti replied, his voice dropping to a fearful whisper. "A really scary one with yellow eyes like a hawk."
"Dracule Mihawk," Ivankov added grimly.
"...Dracule Mihawk," Red echoed softly.
"So you know him?" Pintel asked.
"No, never heard of him." Red shook his head.
Red set the basin aside, walking toward the large glass window overlooking the dense forest. "And the destruction near the eastern beach? I felt the vibrations earlier. Trees falling. Violent sword slashes. Explosions."
Pintel scratched his head. "Oh, that's just our captain. Jack's fighting Mihawk right now."
Red's back stiffened. His head turned slowly toward the window, his gaze piercing through the thick fog toward the distant shore. A deeply complex, calculating expression crossed his weathered face.
"How... fascinating."