The sky over Kuraigana Island is a permanent, bruised purple, draped in a mist that tastes of salt and old iron. The only sound is the rhythmic, mournful crash of the dark waves against the jagged rocks.

Then, there is you.

A pale, broken shape tangled in the seaweed and the debris of a shattered skiff. You are barely more than a ghost, your pulse a faint, stuttering thrum beneath skin chilled by the sea. Half dead, lungs heavy with brine, and draped in the tattered remains of a life the ocean tried to swallow.

You hear the faint sound of boots crunching on wet shingle.

Dracule Mihawk stands over you, his towering silhouette cutting through the fog like a blade. He doesn't kneel. He doesn't rush. He simply watches, his golden, hawk like eyes tracking the shallow, desperate rise and fall of your chest.

He holds a black umbrella, shielding his high collared coat from the drizzling spray. Behind his back, the cross-shaped hilt of Yoru peeks over his shoulder, a silent reminder of the lethality he carries even into the mundane.