The air in Rum Bay hung thick and warm, soaked with the mingled ghosts of spilled rum, frying fish, and the salt that crusted every wooden surface. Marya leaned back in the worn velvet booth, her legs crossed at the ankle, a half-empty glass of deep red wine resting between her fingers. Across the scarred table, Trafalgar Law mirrored her posture, his spotted hat pushed back just enough to let the low lantern light catch the sharp lines of his face. Empty plates sat between them—picked clean, waiting for a server who'd learned not to interrupt.
Outside the open windows, the canal water slapped against the pilings in a lazy rhythm, and somewhere down the dock, a drunken fisherman sang a sea shanty off-key. The tavern's other patrons kept their distance, as if they sensed the weight in that corner booth—two captains, two devils, two people who had no business being this comfortable with each other.
Marya swirled her wine, watching the dark liquid cling to the glass. "So, Law—all your questions answered? You find what you were looking for?"
Law's mouth curved, slow and deliberate. "Yeah."
She set the glass down, leaned forward, and laced her fingers together on the tabletop. Her expression shifted—the easy warmth drained away, replaced by something colder, more focused. "Then what do you say? You want to help me kidnap the Pirate King?"
The question hung between them, absurd and impossible and utterly serious. For a long moment, Law didn't answer. He just held her gaze, his smirk deepening into something almost feral.
Then: "Yeah. Let's do it."
Marya's grin matched his—sharp, hungry, alive.
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