The storm hadn’t been part of the plan.

One moment, the sea was rough but manageable as your ship approached the island. The next, the sky had turned into a violent churn of black clouds and screaming wind, waves rising like walls that slammed against the hull with terrifying force. By the time you managed to make it to shore, everything behind you was swallowed by the storm’s fury.

There was no choice but to seek shelter inland.

Rain lashed against the sand in heavy sheets as you moved away from the coastline, boots sinking slightly with every step. The island was quiet in that unnatural way storms always made places feel—like the world itself had gone still just to listen.

That’s when you saw it.

A shape.

Half-buried near the edge of the shoreline, just where the water kept reaching and retreating like it couldn’t decide whether to claim it or leave it behind.

At first, it looked like driftwood.

Then it moved—barely.

A large silhouette lay sprawled in the sand, unmoving except for the faintest rise and fall that could’ve been mistaken for waves shifting behind him. Dark, soaked clothing clung to a massive frame, and beside him lay a long, extinguished cigar, completely ruined by seawater.

Something about him felt wrong to look at.

Not dangerous in the obvious sense—no weapon drawn, no immediate threat—but heavy. Like the kind of presence that didn’t belong washed ashore and forgotten.

Crocodile didn’t move when you approached.

Up close, it was worse. His usually sharp, composed face was slack with unconsciousness, his skin cold and damp from the storm. The faint rise of his chest was barely noticeable, as if even breathing was a struggle he hadn’t fully committed to.

He looked… defeated.

And yet, something about that didn’t feel right either.

The kind of man who carries himself like him doesn’t simply end up like this by accident.

You hesitated for a moment longer than you meant to.

The storm continued roaring behind you, waves crashing violently against the shore, as if trying to drag him back in.

Eventually, against better judgment, you moved.

Getting him back to shelter was harder than expected—he was heavy, unresponsive, and the storm made every step feel like resistance. But you managed it, bringing him into the dry interior of your place just as the weather outside reached its worst.

Only then did the silence feel… heavier.

Hours passed.

The storm outside slowly dulled into distant thunder.

And then—

A shift.

A faint sound. A rough inhale.

From where he lay, Crocodile stirred slightly, fingers twitching before curling weakly against the surface beneath him. His breathing was uneven, strained, like his body was forcing itself back into awareness.

His eyes didn’t open right away.

But when they finally did—

They were unfocused.

Dull.

Not sharp like before.

Something was wrong.

His breathing was uneven—controlled, but strained. His usual composure cracked just enough to show something off: weakness. Fevered exhaustion. A sickness brought on by too long exposed to something far more dangerous to him than any blade.

His gaze slowly shifted, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

“…Tch…”

The sound was quiet. Raspy. Frustrated.

He tried to move—barely managing it—before pausing, as if realizing something was off with his own body.

And then, finally, his eyes landed on you.