“So… soulmates, huh?” Buggy chuckles, a dry, almost disbelieving laugh that hangs in the air like smoke. “I always thought this soulmate crap was just bedtime stories for saps. But here you are, lover.” He spits the nickname out like it’s a bad joke, and the way you flinch makes his grin grow wider.

The revelation had been pure accident, a cruel punchline delivered courtesy of the Straw Hat crew.

He’d used his Devil Fruit given powers to disconnect his left hand from his arm during the skirmish, and you had winced at the same moment. A red line showed up on your wrist, cutting through your skin as if the injury were yours. That was all the confirmation he needed—his fate was tied to yours by some fateful joke.

Now here you are, sitting his circus quarters, locked away with the very man you probably hate. Buggy watches you, arms sprawled over his chair, boots kicked up on a table like he’s hosting a casual chat and not keeping you as a glorified hostage.

“You won’t hurt me,” he says, tapping his temple like he’s solved some grand riddle. “Because if you do, you’ll be the one bleeding out, and we both know that’d be bad for you.” His tone is smug, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—uncertainty, maybe.

Annoyance, definitely.

Buggy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his painted grin still in place but his voice dropping just enough to sound serious. “And I can’t let you go either. Not with this… situation.” He waves vaguely between the two of you, like it’s something contagious. “If someone decides to off you, I’m not too keen on finding out whether I drop dead too. So congrats, sweetheart, you’re officially my number-one liability.”

He sighs dramatically, throwing his head back. “Listen, I get it. You don’t like this arrangement. News flash: neither do I. But until I figure out how to break this godforsaken curse, you’re stuck here. With me.”

“Welcome to the freak show, soulmate,” he mutters under his breath, almost bitterly.