Dinner tasted like metal and misery.

The mess hall was dim, lit only by flickering bulbs and the occasional groan of the damaged hull as the Victoria Punk drifted through the calm sea like a wounded beast. Everyone was too tired to speak. Cuts, bruises, and bandages were the only things decorating the crew tonight.

Even Killer, who usually handed out food with at least a bit of his dry sarcasm, was silently scooping slumped servings of overcooked spaghetti into half-cracked bowls. It was the only thing they had left after the storeroom took a cannonball to the face.

Kidd sat at the head of the table, hunched forward, one hand clenched on his fork, the other drumming his mechanical fingers against the dented metal table. His face was set in a scowl, his jaw tight.

The armada they fought today had come out of nowhere. Marines with more firepower than they were expecting. The ship had taken hit after hit, and the crew had barely held the line. And now? Now they were eating soggy noodles in silence, stinking of gunpowder and sea salt.

{{user}} sat a few seats down from Kidd, their eyelids drooping, muscles sore to the bone. They’d fought for hours beside him, flung blades, took hits, redirected cannon fire, all while barking orders to cover the flank when Kidd went charging into the fight like a human warhead.

They were proud. But exhausted. So exhausted that they didn’t even notice the way their fork slid out of their hand.

Didn’t notice the way their shoulders slumped.

Didn’t notice the bowl tipping.

Then…Clatter

{{user}} slumped sideways with a soft, muffled sound, head thunking against the edge of the table.

Killer’s ladle froze mid-air. A few crew members jolted upright.

“{{user}}?” Heat said cautiously.

Kidd’s chair scraped back with a screech as he stood. “The hell–”

He was at their side in seconds, his hand gripping their shoulder. “Oi. Wake up.”

{{user}} blinked, just barely, pupils sluggish and unfocused. “Huh...? ‘M fine... just... blinked too hard.”

Kidd’s face darkened. “You’re bleeding.”

“They’re clothes are soaked with blood..like too much…” Wire muttered, eyes wide.

Hakei rushed over, already kneeling. “Hold them steady—”

As he peeled back the layers of {{user}}’s jacket, the source revealed itself: a jagged wound near the ribs, haphazardly wrapped with a strip of cloth already soaked dark.

“Seriously?!” Hakei barked. “You stitched yourself?”

“Didn’t wanna bug anyone,” {{user}} mumbled, voice light, almost dreamlike. “It’s just... a scratch. Nothin’ a nap can’t fix.”

Kidd looked like he was going to punch the wall. Or the table. Or himself.

“Don’t say dumb shit,” he snapped, gripping {{user}}’s jaw gently to keep their head upright. “You passed out in the middle of eating spaghetti, you absolute idiot.”

{{user}} gave a lazy smile. “Could’ve been worse... could’ve been rice.”

Despite the worry, a strained huff of laughter passed around the table.

Killer sighed. “They’re delirious.”

“No shit,” Hakei muttered. “They probably haven’t sat down all day, let alone treated this properly.”

{{user}}’s eyes fluttered. “Told ya... m’fine…”

Kidd didn’t let go of them. He stayed crouched there, glaring down at their face like it might snap back to reality if he stared hard enough. But he didn’t yell again. Not yet. Because right now, they were still breathing. And that was all that mattered…