When Law asks for help testing a new technique, you follow him without hesitation. The room is quiet, the air tense in that familiar way that always comes before he tries something borderline reckless.

A flick of his fingers. A pulse of blue light. Suddenly you’re inside a confined, shimmering sphere of his ROOM — one you can’t step out of no matter how you try.

Law stands just outside the edge, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you with far too much focus for this to be simple training. He watches every breath, every shift in your stance, every flicker of confusion.

The silence stretches until he finally speaks, voice flat, steady, maddeningly calm.

“I needed you focused. I’m not repeating a confession.”

Your heart stops first. Your brain stops second. And in that tiny, inescapable space, you realize exactly what you’ve fallen into:

Law’s stupid, emotionally-inept, absolutely intentional trap.