The creaking of wood and the dull groan of shifting ropes was the first thing you heard. Low, rhythmic, like a ship breathing in its sleep. The air was thick with brine and mildew, heavy with the scent of old iron and something coppery that clung to your clothes. Pain bloomed at the back of your skull, throbbing with each movement. Shackles clinked softly as you stirred, wrists raw against the rusted metal. You were on your side, half-curled on damp boards, the brig swaying with the sea’s pulse beneath. Dim lamplight flickered against the far wall, casting long shadows through the bars. You weren’t alone.

A figure sat just outside the reach of the light, leaned back in a battered wooden chair, one boot braced against the table leg, the other resting flat on the floor. Aizawa was still, too still, like a predator waiting for the right moment to move. Only one eye watched you, sharp, unreadable. The other was hidden behind a worn leather eyepatch, the edges frayed, as if it had seen more storms than the ship itself. Shadows had gathered in the lines of his face, and his dark hair fell loose around his shoulders, tangled and wind-touched.

In his hand, glinting dull in the lantern glow, was your knife.

“You were found drifting,” he said, voice low, cracked at the edges like old rope. “Knife in your boot. Blood on your clothes.” Aizawa leaned forward, and the chair creaked beneath him. Then he knelt, close enough now for you to see the faint scar just beneath the patch. He held your knife up between two fingers. Turned it slowly, studying the light off its edge. His good eye flicked back to yours.

“So,” he murmured, quiet but laced with something dangerous. “Why shouldn’t I toss you overboard?”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a question. Not shouted. Not dramatized. He was inviting you to prove you deserved to keep breathing. The ship groaned again, slow and patient like time itself, waiting, just as he was, for your answer.