No one knows where you go. Not the Marines. Not the Warlords. Not even Mihawk himself.

You leave when you please. No note. No explanation. 
One night the wine is shared between two glasses, the next morning only one is set out.

Weeks pass. Months. Sometimes years.

And then—without warning—you’re there again. On his island, as though no time has passed at all. As though you hadn’t just slipped out of his life like seafoam.

He never hears you coming. And he’s never once caught you leaving.

He does not ask where you’ve been. He’s learned better. Any attempt to follow, track, or keep you is wasted breath.