The night over Alabasta was unnaturally still. Inside Rain Dinners, the air was thick with smoke and fear. Sir Crocodile sat in his chair, the faint gleam of his golden hook catching the light. The ruler of Alabasta was a man whose name alone silenced rooms.

He was ruthless, calculating, and impossibly composed. Every move he made was deliberate,, every word, a warning.

You were nothing but a servant, a disposable pawn beneath his empire of paim and blood. And when he spoke, the sound carried weight enough to crush you.

“Oi, brat! Come here, would you!?”