The sea smelled of brine, tar, and disappointing men.
Dorian sat cross-legged on the railing of the Gilded Cage, a modest sloop he had commandeered three days prior. He was peeling an apple. The skin came away in a single, unbroken red ribbon, curling over his pale fingers like a dying lover.
Across the deck, the ship's former captain was screaming.
"Do you hear me, you pale freak?" Captain Grog bellowed. He was a large man, shaped like a barrel filled with bad decisions. He wielded a rusted cutlass with two hands, his chest heaving. "I said fight me! You took my ship! You took my crew!"
Dorian sighed, letting the apple peel fall into the ocean. It hit the water with a silent, insignificant splash.
"I didn't take them," Dorian said, his voice a soft, melodic tenor that seemed to slide under the skin. "I merely asked them if they wanted to live. They chose the rowboat. You chose to stay. I assumed that meant you had something interesting to show me."
Dorian tilted his head to the side. A lock of dark teal hair fell over his eyes. He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a diner looking at a menu and finding nothing but boiled cabbage.
"I'm still waiting," Dorian whispered.
Grog roared—a sound devoid of melody—and charged.
He was slow. Painfully so. He telegraphs his anger like a drunk writing a letter. He raised the cutlass high, exposing his ribs, his stomach, his throat. He was a collection of openings held together by bravado.
Dorian didn't move from the railing. He simply twitched a finger.
Clink.
From the sleeve of his silk coat, a chain shot out.
It didn't rattle heavily like an anchor chain. It moved with the fluid, snapping elasticity of a whip. It was a dark, burnished grey, and it moved faster than Grog's eyes could follow.
The chain looped around Grog's right ankle mid-stride.
Dorian tugged—a gentle, playful jerk, like checking the tension on a fishing line.
Grog's momentum betrayed him. His leg was yanked backward, but the rest of him continued forward. He slammed face-first into the deck planks with a wet crunch that vibrated pleasantly through the wood.
"Oh," Dorian said, sounding genuinely sympathetic. "Too much enthusiasm. Not enough balance."
Grog groaned, pushing himself up, spitting blood and a tooth. "Devil... fruit..."
"The Chain-Chain," Dorian supplied helpfully. He hopped off the railing, his boots making no sound. The chain retracted into his sleeve with a hiss, coiling around his arm like a shy serpent. "It binds things together. Or pulls them apart. Depending on the mood."
He walked toward the fallen pirate. He didn't rush. The walk was a prowl—elegant, loose-limbed, predatory.
"Get up," Dorian coaxed. "Please. Surprise me. Do something I haven't seen a thousand times in a thousand distinct shades of boring."
Grog scrambled to his feet, fear finally overriding his anger. That was better. Fear made people desperate. Desperation sometimes bred invention. The pirate swung the sword again, this time a horizontal slash meant to gut.
Dorian leaned back. The tip of the blade passed an inch from his nose. He could smell the rust on the metal.
"Better," Dorian murmured.
He spun, his coat flaring. Another chain lashed out from his other sleeve, wrapping around the blade of the cutlass.
Snap.
The chain tightened instantly. Dorian didn't pull the sword away. instead, he pulled himself toward it. The elastic tension of the iron links launched him forward. He landed on Grog's shoulders, perched like a gargoyle, his thighs clamping around the man's thick neck.
Grog thrashed, dropping the sword to claw at Dorian's boots.
"You are strong," Dorian whispered into the man's ear, the intimacy of it terrifying. "You have muscle. You have rage. You have a ship."
Dorian looked out at the horizon. The Grand Line was out there. Somewhere.
"But you are done, aren't you?" Dorian asked, his voice losing its playful lilt, becoming flat and cold. "There is no growth left in you. You are a finished thing. A closed book with a dull ending."
A memory flashed behind Dorian's eyes.
Gold walls. A velvet throne. A crown resting on a head of thinning grey hair.
His father, the King of Vallery, trembling in his royal robes. The guards were dead. The doors were locked. Dorian, age seventeen, stood before him with a dagger.
"Why?" the King had wept. "I gave you everything."
"You gave me walls," Dorian had replied. "And you are just another wall."
He hadn't killed the King. He had looked at the sobbing man, realized that the act of murder would provide no friction, no heat, no climax, and had simply walked out the door. Leaving the King alive was the greater cruelty. It proved he wasn't even worth the effort of an execution.
Dorian looked down at Captain Grog.
The pirate was purple in the face, choking, eyes bulging.
Dorian felt nothing. No spark. No thrill of the hunt. This wasn't prey. This was roadkill.
He back-flipped off Grog's shoulders, the chains retracting with a shhh-whip sound.
Grog collapsed, gasping for air, clutching his throat. He looked up at Dorian, expecting the killing blow.
Dorian turned his back.
"Get off my ship," Dorian said.
"W-what?"
"The rowboat your crew took. I believe it's still visible if you swim hard," Dorian said, picking up his half-peeled apple from the deck. He wiped the dirt off it with his thumb. "I'm keeping the Gilded Cage. I need to go where the monsters are. You wouldn't survive the trip."
"You're... letting me go?" Grog stammered, his ego shattered more thoroughly than his nose.
Dorian took a bite of the apple. It was crisp, tart, and infinitely more satisfying than the fight had been.
"I don't break toys I have no interest in playing with," Dorian said through a mouthful of fruit. He waved a hand dismissively, not looking back. "Go away. You're spoiling the view."
He heard the splash a moment later.
Dorian walked to the helm. He placed his hands on the wheel. It was warm from the sun.
He looked toward the chaotic currents of the Grand Line. The maps said it was a graveyard. The stories said it was hell.
Dorian licked his lips. He could feel a hum in his blood, a low-level vibration of hunger. Somewhere out there were people who weren't finished. People who were still ripening.
"Please," he whispered to the empty ocean, his eyes wide and dark. "Be dangerous."
The Gilded Cage turned into the wind, carrying the Hunter toward the scent of potential.