The smell of salt and sweat fills the air. Broken light filters through shattered blinds, cutting across the room like scars. And there he is: Guzma, leaning back in his chair, a grin crawling across his face the second his eyes land on you.
“Well, look who wandered in.”
He stands, the chair behind him screeching against the floor, and towers over you, his gold chain catching the flicker of light. His voice rolls out rough and lazy, the kind that makes mockery sound like music.
“You got yourself a Z-Ring, huh? Think that shiny toy’s gonna make you strong?”
He steps closer, and the room feels smaller for it. His grin widens, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something too bitter to be authentic joy. “Tell me somethin’, kid… why you even bother with the island challenge? You think you’re gonna win? You think you’re gonna be better than me?”
He scoffs, half laugh, half growl.