Chapter 1
Sparks flew from the lighter, the tiny flame danced and flickered. Multicolored neon lights painted every face in the crowd, casting an ambiguous, seductive glow.
She lowered her head, guiding the cigarette to the flame, watching the tobacco catch and glow one thread at a time. Even with her head bowed, she could feel the stares of passersby — some curious, others laced with barely concealed malice.
Who would have thought that Marineford, headquarters of justice, would tolerate the existence of such a filthy place?
She took a deep drag, savoring the brief relaxation the cigarette granted her.
District 44. The Navy's designated playground for letting off steam and indulging in release. Pay the price, and you could enjoy a woman's company. Of course, plenty of women came here too — hoping to make quick money without much effort. With so many single, family-less Marines, all it took was a willingness to show some skin, dress provocatively, and be forward. One good night could earn a fortune. And if you had real looks? You earned even more.
The cigarette wasn't even half-finished when that annoying customer from the bar stormed out of the establishment with his subordinates in tow.
"Once the drinking party ends, how about we go somewhere to unwind together?" His gaze felt tangible, sliding from the elegant curve of her swan-like neck down to the wide, open collar of her kimono. Those full, rounded breasts… they must feel incredible.
Weschel swallowed hard despite himself. She lifted her eyes and gave him the lightest of glances. That single upward flick of her lashes carried such devastating allure that heat surged through his entire body.
He had seen plenty of women. Bedded even more. But one with this kind of quality? Truly rare. Even a Celestial Dragon would be tempted to keep her as a private collection.
The thought made his desire roar louder. Saliva pooled in his mouth. He swallowed again and again.
His subordinate, well accustomed to his superior's habits, stepped forward immediately. "Name your price."
Weschel put on his usual sanctimonious act, scolding his subordinate for being so crude — all while his ugly face resembled nothing so much as a greedy, filthy hyena.
"I'm just a geisha," she said calmly.
That fleeting illusion returned — the one where she seemed to be appraising merchandise, and he was some cheap, defective product she had already lost interest in, barely worth a second look.
Her soft tone carried unmistakable rejection. Weschel's face flushed crimson. The gentlemanly mask shattered in an instant. He seized her wrist in a bruising grip. "Just a hostess who pours drinks, and you dare refuse me?!"
The white justice coat billowed dramatically behind him — a silent, mocking irony.
This man really had no class. What a waste of an upper-rank title. She frowned. "You're hurting me—"
"Captain Weschel."
The aggressor flinched violently. "G-Garp— I mean, Vice Admiral Garp Mouse?! I didn't expect to see you here."
The other man simply lowered his gaze in silence, staring at the hand still clamped around her wrist. Weschel recoiled as if burned, releasing her instantly. "I-I-I was just…"
"If she doesn't want to, find someone else," the Vice Admiral said quietly. "Don't make things difficult for a girl."
The sheer pressure of the man's presence forced obedience out of pure instinct. Only after a moment did Weschel remember: they weren't even in the same department. Compared to this common-born Vice Admiral, Weschel had a powerful noble family behind him. He had no reason to fear Garp Mouse.
Even if rank separated captain from vice admiral, the gap in power wasn't necessarily insurmountable. And this was District 44 — the Navy's sacred ground for indulgence. If Weschel's intentions were filthy, how pure could Garp Mouse really be for showing up here at all?
Perhaps no one expected that the famously upright and self-disciplined Vice Admiral Garp Mouse would ever set foot in a place like this.
That realization gave Weschel a twisted burst of courage. He straightened his clothes, puffed out his chest, and flashed a smile dripping with malice. "It's just a woman. I didn't realize our tastes aligned so well. If the Vice Admiral likes her… then please, she's all yours."
His subordinates, seeing their boss stand up to a Vice Admiral, shed their earlier fear and snickered among themselves.
Garp Mouse let out a soft sigh. "Then I suppose I should thank Captain Weschel for his generous offer."
Inside the hotel room, the sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. Garp Mouse sat on the edge of the bed, feeling strangely dazed by the unfamiliar situation.
He was one of the few truly disciplined officers at Marine Headquarters. He rarely joined his colleagues in after-hours debauchery. He had only visited District 44 a handful of times in his first two years at Marineford — dragged along by friends who insisted he "see the world." After that, he disliked the place's decadent atmosphere so much that he never returned. This time, he had only come because a certain mischievous Admiral with a sadistic sense of humor had dragged him along — and he hadn't wanted to spoil the mood. Ironically, the moment Garp Mouse finally showed up in District 44, that same prank-loving Admiral had been forcibly kept behind for overtime by Sengoku.
After a few too many drinks, he had excused himself from the private room and stepped outside for air — only to walk right into Captain Weschel harassing a young woman.
He couldn't stand Weschel's behavior, so he intervened.
He had intended only to help her escape the situation. He never expected the idiot Weschel to suddenly become clever for once — grinning as he ordered his men to book the hotel room, watching with satisfaction as the two of them walked inside together.
Garp Mouse sighed silently. Weschel's malice was too obvious. His goal was simple: revenge.
And what did Garp Mouse care about most? His reputation.
What could be more satisfying than dragging a so-called saint down from his moral pedestal and throwing him into the mud?
But Weschel had miscalculated. Garp Mouse didn't care about hollow reputation. If he truly did, he never would have walked into this room with a woman under Weschel's gloating stare.
The water shut off. She emerged from the bathroom, shrouded in steam. Through the mist, the graceful outline of her body was faintly visible. Garp Mouse took one look and immediately turned his back.
"Sorry."
"May I ask what the Vice Admiral is apologizing for?" The soft rustle of fabric. A gentle sigh. "If it's because of that vulgar superior of yours… then there's really no need."
She didn't understand. He could have stopped Weschel with force. But he had to be cautious. Weschel himself might be weak, but the powerful noble family behind him was not. At this delicate moment, with factions inside the Marines tearing at each other, openly clashing with aristocratic influence could disrupt the entire balance.
His choice had been pragmatic. He had weighed the consequences… and sacrificed her.
"The way things turned out… I bear responsibility too."
"The Vice Admiral really is… kind-hearted." She gave a soft, almost amused sigh. "No need to feel guilty. In District 44, women like us stopped caring about reputation long ago."
Garp Mouse frowned. He didn't agree with her words — but he also didn't know how to argue against them. District 44 existed for exactly this purpose: a designated outlet for the Navy to vent and indulge. What happened to her tonight was commonplace here. It was merely a microcosm of the entire district.
A fact.
"You should rest here tonight," he said. "And after this… it would be better if you never came back to District 44."
He walked to the window and sat in the chair, clearly intending to spend the night right there.
The streetlights of District 44 in Marineford were the brightest in the city. Garp Mouse gazed downward. Drunken Marines staggered along the streets. Women in the brothels displayed their charms, beckoning customers. Greedy mama-sans eyed the wallets of men ruled by lust…
Once again — how absurd that such a place of indulgence existed right in the heart of Marine Headquarters.
Footsteps behind him interrupted his thoughts. She had circled around to stand in front of him. She wore only a thin bath towel. Her exquisite figure appeared and disappeared beneath it.
He met a pair of deep, sapphire-blue eyes. She hooked a slender finger under his chin. Her shadow fell over him. He felt as if he were sinking into the deep ocean — fierce undercurrents rushing toward him.
The heavy scent of alcohol on his breath mingled with the faint tobacco on hers. She kissed the corner of his mouth slowly, delicately. Soft fingers slid to his belt. The buckle clicked open. The leather slid free, inch by inch. In her moist, gleaming eyes, he felt like an elaborately wrapped gift box — waiting for her to peel away layer after layer with eager anticipation.
His throat bobbed.
She tucked a playful strand of hair behind her ear. "If the Vice Admiral doesn't like it… you can just push me away, you know."