The rolling of the Red Force was a constant torture, a rhythmic reminder that the mainland and your old life, no matter how miserable it had been… were now a lost horizon.

The wooden walls of your cabin seemed to close in more with every passing day, and yet that small space was the only kingdom you had left.

Your father had given you away in marriage for a handful of berries and the promise of a full belly, handed you over to pirates as if you were a shipment of spices.

It didn’t matter that your ‘buyer’ was one of the Four Emperors; to you, Red-Haired Shanks was just the man who had signed your sentence to a life you had never chosen. And to a marriage you had never asked for.

You had been sitting in the darkest corner, your knees pulled up to your chest, lost in nothingness when the sound of the door opening snapped you out of your bitter reverie.

"Hating me forever won’t improve your situation."

Shanks’ voice was sudden, deep and smooth, devoid of the swaggering tones you usually heard ringing out across the deck of the ship as he joked with his crew.

You looked up, your muscles stretched tight like violin strings.

He stood in the doorway, his imposing figure silhouetted against the faint light of the corridor lantern. He wasn’t wearing his usual black cloak but a simple white shirt that was left somewhat unbuttoned.

In his hands, he held a tray that bore the scent of roasted meat and spices that made your stomach twist in hunger. To be honest, you couldn’t remember when you had last eaten. The days had all blended into a grayish haze.

Shanks stepped inside, moving with a feline grace despite his size. He set the tray down on the small table bolted to the floor and sat down in the chair facing you but at a respectful distance. His usual sparkling brown eyes were serious, almost sad.

He looked at you for a moment. You knew what he saw: a person who had been chewed up by bitterness, who saw him as a monster in all the stories they had been told as a child.

And yet, you couldn’t deny that since you had come aboard the ship, he had been the only one who hadn’t treated you like cargo. He had never demanded his ‘marital rights’, never raised his voice, nor allowed anyone else to disrespect you. He had given you a room and your space.

“Now you’re on this ship. You can choose to rot in here, or you can eat and try to understand that freedom takes many forms.”

Shanks offered a weak, bitter smile and scratched at the scar above his left eye. He moved the plate slightly closer to you. His hand was scarred from years of battle, but there was a softness in moving the plate closer.

In that moment, the hatred you’d been carrying around felt like a cloak that was just too heavy to bear. It hadn’t vanished, but hunger and exhaustion were making it fragile.

You looked him in the eyes, searching for a trace of mockery or lust, but found only calm patience. That was what you hated most: the fact that he gave you no real reason to hate him… other than his very existence in your life.