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The corridor behind the iron door was a dark, damp, narrow vein carved into raw stone. The light of a single oil lantern, hanging far behind
The corridor behind the iron door was a dark, damp, narrow vein carved into raw stone.
The light of a single oil lantern, hanging far behind him, failed to pierce the thick darkness that greeted him. He advanced unhurriedly.
After about fifty meters, the corridor abruptly opened onto a heavy, thick curtain of purple velvet. A muffled murmur, a low vibration of distant music, and mingled scents of expensive cigar and strong liquor seeped through the fabric.
Mihawk slowly parted the curtain with the flat of his hand.
The room that unfolded before him was a cocoon of muffled, sinister opulence. The floor was covered in a thick black carpet. A low light, filtered through tarnished brass shades, emanated from lamps set on dark mahogany low tables.
At the center of the room, arranged in a semicircle facing the entrance, stood three broad armchairs of worn black leather. Only two were occupied.
In the middle chair, slightly set back yet dominating the space by his mere presence, sat a man Mihawk would recognize among thousands, even in this gloom.
Crocodile. The former Shichibukai wore an impeccably cut charcoal three-piece suit, accented by a black collarless shirt and his imposing dark fur coat carelessly draped over the back of his seat. A thick gold chain gleamed faintly on his vest. His angular face, marked by the famous horizontal scar crossing his metal nose, was shrouded in shadow, lit only by the glowing red tip of the cigar between his ringed fingers. His eyes, pale and cold yellow, fixed on Mihawk.
Standing stiff as a statue to Crocodile's immediate right was Mr. 1, Daz Bonez. His impassive face, framed by his distinctive haircut, betrayed no emotion, but his small, sharp eyes swept over Mihawk with a predator's vigilance, lingering on the hands hidden under his cloak, searching for that familiar, menacing shape.
It was Crocodile who broke the silence.
"So… The Hawk himself deigns to honor my humble lair." He drew a long drag on his cigar, the smoke slipping from his lips in sinuous curls. His yellow gaze settled on the black mask still covering Mihawk's lower face. One eyebrow lifted, barely perceptible. "Still fond of theatrics, Mihawk? Or has my face suddenly grown too vulgar for your legendary eyes? Take that rag off."
Mihawk did not answer. His eyes, visible above the mask, stayed fixed on Crocodile, though his attention shifted almost imperceptibly toward Daz Bonez.
Crocodile followed his gaze. A thin sneer — more a twist of his lips than a smile — crossed his face.
"Want to talk in private, Hawk?" His voice was still that same slow drawl. He turned his head slightly toward his bodyguard. "Daz. Leave us."
Mr. 1 didn't move at once. His eyes flicked from Mihawk to Crocodile. A faint, almost imperceptible hesitation stiffened his massive shoulders. After a brief moment of silent tension, during which his gaze met Mihawk's one last time, Daz inclined his head — a stiff, mechanical motion.
"As you wish, Boss." His voice was deep, gravelly. He pivoted on his heels and walked toward a door hidden in the velvet wall to the left of the chairs. Before disappearing, he cast one last look over his shoulder, loaded with a silent warning for Mihawk, then the door shut with a muffled thud.
They were alone.
The cigar smoke swirled between them.
Mihawk slowly raised his hands. His long, precise fingers grasped the bottom edge of the black cloth mask. In one fluid motion, he removed it, revealing his face in full: the chiseled features, the well-kept beard, and above all, those piercing, inhuman golden eyes that locked on Crocodile without blinking. He slid the mask into an inner pocket of his tunic.
"You always had a knack for finding the right holes to crawl into, Crocodile," Mihawk said, his voice low, clear, devoid of the faintest emotion, yet carrying a quiet weight of observation. "From the sands of Alabasta to the bowels of this trash heap of an island. That's… a skill."
Crocodile let out a small sound that might have been a muted laugh. He crushed his cigar carelessly into a crystal ashtray on the low table at hand.
"A hole?" he repeated, the irony still there. "You call this a hole? Let's say I appreciate discretion. But it seems I haven't hidden well enough, Hawk-Eyes." He crossed his legs, adopting a relaxed pose that contrasted with the intensity in his gaze. "Because if I had, a notorious hermit like you wouldn't have set foot in my den. So, tell me. What brings you to this cesspit? A sudden craving for bootleg rum? Or…" His yellow eyes narrowed slightly. "…did you simply lose your way looking for a quiet place to hone your blade?"
Mihawk didn't react to the provocation. He kept his gaze steady.
"You don't read the papers, Crocodile?" he asked simply.
This time, a brief, dry laugh escaped Crocodile.
"The papers? Those propaganda rags stuffed with drivel?" He shook his head, a cold smile on his lips. "Oh, I see a few. Enough, anyway, to know the great Mihawk has stepped out of his shell with some… flair." He paused theatrically, his fingers drumming on the leather armrest. "Doflamingo and his family torn to shreds… Dressrosa under your heel… Kaido pushed back…" He whistled softly through his teeth. "You've been a little busy, Hawk. A real whirlwind through the New World." He leaned slightly forward, the red tip of his freshly relit cigar tracing an arc in the gloom. "So tell me. Are you here to do to me what you did to that clown Doffy? Because, let me warn you, I don't share his taste for pointless drama…"
A faint smile — no more than a crease at the corners of his lips — brushed Mihawk's face. A smile that never reached his golden eyes.
"Are you afraid, Crocodile?"
Crocodile's drumming fingers froze instantly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees — or perhaps it was the effect of the cold energy suddenly emanating from the former king of Alabasta. His yellow eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
"Afraid?" he repeated, his voice now a rough, menacing whisper. "Of you? Don't overestimate yourself, Mihawk. Even with that legendary sword, you're not invincible. Besides…" His gaze swept deliberately over Mihawk's body, searching, inspecting. "…where is it, your precious blade?" A flicker of incredulity mixed with contempt passed through his eyes. "You come to visit me, in my own domain, without your weapon?" He straightened in his chair, his silhouette suddenly more imposing. "That's arrogance, Hawk. Or madness. Tell me, which is it?"
Mihawk didn't move an inch. His posture remained perfectly relaxed, almost indolent, in total contrast to the electric tension now radiating from Crocodile.
"Yoru isn't a pocket dagger, Crocodile," he replied with calm coldness. "Hiding it in a port like Ker-Bisth would have been… counterproductive." He held Crocodile's furious gaze. "And unnecessary. You have no reason to worry. Not yet."
"Then stop circling me like a vulture, Mihawk," Crocodile spat. "Say what you came to say. Or get out."
Mihawk drew a slow, almost imperceptible breath. His eyes never left Crocodile's.
"Join my crew, Crocodile."
Time seemed to freeze.
Crocodile's pale yellow eyes, usually so cold and calculating, went wide. A split second of raw, unfiltered incredulity crossed his stone-carved face, wiping away all control. His cigar, forgotten between his fingers, trembled slightly, dropping a long cylinder of gray ash onto the black carpet.
"What?" The word came out in a harsh breath, more a croak than a word. He blinked, as if doubting what he'd heard. "You… you want what?"
Mihawk held his gaze, impassive. "You heard me. I'm offering you my flag. Sail under my command."
A palpable wave of heat suddenly radiated from Crocodile. The black carpet under his feet crackled faintly, drying instantly across several square centimeters. Tiny particles, at first invisible, then forming into miniature whirlwinds, began to rise from the floor, dancing in the beams of muted light. Sand. Fine, dry, abrasive. It scraped surfaces, hissed against the velvet walls, filled the air.
"Your… crew?" Crocodile repeated. The sand around him stirred, forming small concentric eddies at his feet. "You walk in here, without your sword, into my lair, and you dare… you dare ask me to become your subordinate?" He rose slowly from his chair. His fur coat seemed to swallow the surrounding light. The sand was now swirling up to his knees, spinning with growing energy, crackling like a swarm of ravenous insects. The heat was suffocating, desiccating. "Mihawk…" His name was pronounced like a curse. "…did you come here just to insult me?"