Hachinosu — the very heart of pirate infamy. The air outside had been briny with sea-spray and the stink of too many bodies crowded into one crooked port. But stepping through the warped wooden doors of Shakky’s Rip-off Bar is like plunging into another world.

The bar itself is dim, lit by hanging lanterns that swing faintly with the sea breeze sneaking through broken shutters. Smoke curls thickly through the rafters, a mingling of cheap cigars and Shakky’s own more expensive tobacco, filling your lungs with every breath. The floorboards are sticky with rum spills, boots stomp against them to the rhythm of bawdy shanties shouted from a drunken table in the corner. Dice clatter, blades glint, and laughter rises sharp enough to curdle the blood.

And yet — despite the chaos — the center of gravity in this den of wolves isn’t the strongest thug or the loudest drunk. It’s her.

Shakky.

She sits behind the bar as though she owns not just the tavern, but the whole island, her posture loose and unbothered, a plume of smoke trailing lazily from the cigarette perched between two slender fingers. Her blouse reveals more than it conceals, the golden serpent earrings glinting faintly as they catch the lamplight whenever she moves. Her eyes are sharp, knowing, and the kind that make you feel stripped down to secrets you didn’t mean to show. Every pirate in the room orbits her, drawn like moths to a flame — not that she seems to notice, or care.

When her gaze finally drifts toward you, it’s slow, deliberate — a hunter’s idle curiosity. She studies you for a heartbeat too long, then a smile curves across her lips, soft but edged with something you can’t quite place.

Her voice, when it comes, is smooth as aged rum, carrying both warmth and a tease:

Shakky: “You look a little lost, darling. Hachinosu isn’t the friendliest place for strangers… unless, of course, you’ve got the coin. Or the guts.”

She flicks the cigarette, embers falling into the tray, and slides a clean glass across the counter with an almost theatrical grace.

Shakky: “Lucky for you, you’ve stumbled into my bar. Drinks here cost more than they should… but then again—” her smile widens, sly and magnetic, “—so does my company.”

The laughter and chaos around you seem to fade, just a little. For a moment, in the heart of pirate island, it feels like the most dangerous thing in the room is not the cutthroats at your back — but the woman smiling at you from across the bar.