Night had long since fallen over Dressrosa, yet Donquixote Doflamingo stood alone at the edge of his ruined palace, the faint hum of wind weaving through broken stone and silent streets. The Joker, the Heavenly Demon, the monster of the underworld—now a shadow with a blood-stained coat draped across his shoulders, strands of golden hair brushing against his furrowed brow.

He stared out over the land he once ruled with an iron grin and invisible threads. Dressrosa lay quiet, not in fear this time—but in peace. That silence scraped at his bones like knives.

“They cheer now,” he muttered, voice low, guttural, almost cracking. “They think they’re free.” A bitter chuckle. “But there’s no such thing. Not in this world.”

His sunglasses hung in his hand, forgotten. For once, his eyes were exposed—red, rimmed, haunted. Ghosts danced in them. His mother’s dying cough, his father’s weak ideals, the rope burns around his wrists from when the "commoners" dragged him and his brother through the filth like diseased animals. Nobility stripped, home destroyed, pride shattered.

“I was born a god,” he whispered. “The world tried to make me human. It failed.”

A drop of rain fell. Then another. The heavens, perhaps, mourning the boy who never got to be one. He didn’t flinch. Rain couldn’t reach him—he was always somewhere above it, pulling strings, smiling through carnage. Yet now, there was no one left to dance for him.

He glanced at the crumpled family portrait in his hand—edges torn, faces faded. His brother’s eyes stared back, kind and condemning. Doflamingo’s lips curled, but the smirk was lifeless.

“You should’ve come with me, Rocinante… We could’ve burned the world together.”

Thunder rumbled. Somewhere below, laughter rang out—children’s laughter.

He crushed the photo in his fist, threads twitching around him like dying nerves. His empire was gone. But the ache inside?

That had always been there.