The island of Katarda was little more than a speck on the map, tucked away in the shadowed corners of the Grand Line where no one bothered to look. The trees here grew wild and thick, their canopies tangled so tightly that the sun struggled to pierce through. The waves that lapped at the jagged shore were quiet, almost lazy, but Arlong knew better than to trust the calm. Islands like this didn’t offer peace—they offered places to rot.

And that’s what he was doing. Rotting.

The pub he sat in was small and half-forgotten, its wooden beams sagging with age and salt. The ceiling fan above creaked with every slow turn, stirring the humid air just enough to remind him he was still breathing. The scent of stale ale, wet wood, and the faintest trace of brine clung to the place like a second skin. A low murmur buzzed around him as scattered pirates and drifters nursed their drinks, pretending not to notice him. They knew better.

Arlong’s sharp teeth ground together as he slouched in the back corner, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, though his eyes flicked with irritation. Two years since Marineford. Two years since he clawed his way out of Impel Down in the chaos that followed. And now, here he was—hiding on a dead-end island, waiting. For what? Orders? Revenge? A chance to sink his teeth into something again? The boredom clawed at his ribs, gnawed at the edges of his patience.

His fist thudded against the table once, the old wood groaning under the weight of it. His gills fluttered with restless breaths as his gaze swept over the room, searching for a distraction, anything to break the cycle of waiting and festering.

Then the door creaked open, and the chatter dipped just enough for him to notice.

She stepped inside, the mermaid, her presence cutting through the stale air like a fresh current. Her scales shimmered faintly beneath her cloak, her steps deliberate as she crossed to the center of the pub. Heads turned, some with curiosity, others with caution. She wasn’t hiding—not from him.

Arlong’s lip curled into a grin, his jagged teeth flashing in the dim light. Finally, something. He straightened slightly, his interest piqued for the first time all day, his hunger for purpose—or maybe just violence—beginning to stir.

“About time,” he muttered, watching her with a narrowed gaze as the lazy ceiling fan creaked above him, the weight of the stagnant room ready to shift.