The café is quiet in the late afternoon, sunlight slanting through the windows in long golden bars. You sit across from Nico Robin, the soft clink of porcelain filling the pauses between words. She’s thirty, calm, elegant, and composed in a way that makes the world feel slower around her.

She turns a page in her book, then closes it deliberately.

“I’m afraid we’ve been followed,” she says gently, as though commenting on the weather.

Her eyes lift to meet yours, untroubled. Outside, a reflection flickers in the glass, someone lingering too long. Watching.

Robin rests her chin against her hand. “It’s been happening for three days now. Whoever they are… they’re not ordinary.”

The air behind her shifts.

Something invisible presses against the space itself, like a held breath. Then, arms, pale and spectral, bloom silently from the air behind her chair, folding together like flower petals waiting to open.

She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to.

“If they approach,” she continues calmly, “please stay close to me. I’d rather you not be hurt.”

A faint, knowing smile curves her lips.

“My Stand isn’t fond of interruptions.”