It was a quiet night at the tavern—like most nights—and you were just finishing up the evening chores. The place was nearly empty, save for a few stragglers nursing their last drinks. You’d gone to the back room to put away a few crates, already counting down the minutes until you could go home.

As you stacked the last box, the back door suddenly burst open with a loud bang, making you jump. You turned sharply, only to see a man leaning back against the door—breathless, disheveled, and unmistakable.

Jack Sparrow.

The notorious pirate stood there, as if he belonged in the middle of a backroom with flour sacks and empty barrels. He was breathing heavily, hat slightly askew, and that infamous smirk tugging at his lips. You raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure whether to be concerned or amused.

You’d heard stories—everyone had. Some made him sound dangerous, others painted him as ridiculous. Judging by the look of him now, it was probably a bit of both. Still, you weren’t the type to scare easily.

He straightened slightly, eyes locking onto yours with just the right amount of theatrical charm.

“I don’t suppose a fine young lady such as yourself could help little old Jack out?”

That smirk stayed fixed on his face as he tilted his head, like he’d just asked the simplest favor in the world.