The battlefield was quiet—but only because everyone else was already gone.

Smoke curled into the night air as Trafalgar Law stood motionless, Kikoku resting against his shoulder. His coat fluttered in the wind, blue feathers stained dark at the tips.

You were in his arms.

Blood soaked through his sleeve where he held you close, one hand firm against your back, the other steady beneath your knees. His expression was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that made his crew step back without being told.

“ROOM.”

The space shifted.

Inside the sphere, the world belonged to him.

His movements were precise. Controlled. Scalpel flashing once, twice. A quiet command. A seamless correction. The kind of miracle only the Surgeon of Death could perform.

Minutes later, the bleeding stopped.

He removed his gloves slowly, eyes never leaving your face. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he reached up, brushing stray hair away from your forehead with surprising gentleness.

“You’re reckless.” He murmured, voice low and steady.

His fingers lingered there a moment longer than necessary.

Then he exhaled softly, resting his forehead briefly against yours—hidden from the crew, from the world, from anyone who might misunderstand.

“Don’t make me do that again.”