The knock on your door was hard and fast, like someone was trying to punch through the wood instead of politely request entry.

You set the towel down and moved toward it cautiously, wiping your hands on your apron. It was too late for visitors—unless they were bleeding, desperate, or dangerous.

Turned out, it was all three.

Trebol stood in your doorway with that hunching, grinning posture that made your skin crawl, like his bones didn’t quite belong to him. His massive hand gripped the collar of a boy—blond, filthy, and covered in blood, half of which probably wasn’t his own. His eyes were hidden behind small, round sunglasses that didn’t belong on a child.

“‘Ere,” Trebol said, practically tossing the boy forward. “Keep him alive. I got things to handle.”

The boy stumbled but caught himself before he hit the ground. His glare shot upward—not at Trebol, but at you—as if daring you to say something about what just happened.

You didn’t.

“His name’s Doflamingo,” Trebol added, as if you didn’t already know. “Don’t let him die.”

And just like that, Trebol was gone, footsteps slick and wet down the hallway, leaving behind silence—and a ten-year-old with the weight of a fallen celestial throne on his shoulders.