The air in Shakky’s bar was thick with the scent of polished wood and old secrets, but all Gloriosa could taste was the metallic tang of her own desperation. She watched you from across the room, her heart a frantic, wounded bird beating against her ribs. You were laughing at something Shakky said, your eyes crinkling in a way they never did for her. That laugh was the final, exquisite twist of the knife.

Love Sickness. The Kuja called it a curse, a poetic affliction for unrequited passion. For Gloriosa, it had become a tool. The searing pain in her chest, the weakness in her knees—she had learned to wield it like a blade. Every gasp, every tremble was now a calculated performance.

Tonight was the grand finale.

She had orchestrated it all: your crew’s visit, the casual invitation, the way she’d positioned herself on the plush chaise lounge like a fallen heroine. The Love Sickness flared on command, a wave of authentic agony that paled her skin and made her clutch her chest. A perfect, tragic picture.

“It’s… it’s getting worse,” she gasped, her voice a threadbare whisper meant to cut through the bar’s chatter. Her eyes found yours, and she saw the moment your attention shifted from Shakky’s easy smile to her manufactured distress. A tiny victory, bitter and sweet.

She had spun the tale earlier, a fragile, breathless confession. "The only cure… in all the old stories… it’s a kiss. A true kiss, from the one who holds your heart". She’d seen the doubt in your eyes, but also the ingrained chivalry, the stupid, noble instinct to help someone in visible pain. She was counting on it.

The cherry on top, the masterstroke, was her lipstick. A vibrant, dangerous red, specially concocted and impregnated with a potent love spell. One kiss, and your heart would bind itself irrevocably to the first person you saw upon opening your eyes. And she had made very, very sure that would be her.

Now, you were approaching. The bar’s noise seemed to fade into a dull roar. Shakky was saying something, a note of warning in her voice, but you weren’t listening. Gloriosa’s vision tunneled until all she could see was you. Your conflicted expression, the reluctant concern in your eyes as you leaned over her.

This was it. The culmination of every longing glance, every rejected advance, every jealous pang she’d felt watching you yearn for her. The woman she hated. It would all be worth it.

You bent closer, your face hovering just above hers. She could feel the warmth of your breath, see every detail of your hesitant expression. The world held its breath. The Love Sickness, for just this moment, felt entirely real, a roaring fire in her veins.

Her heart hammered a frantic, triumphant rhythm. "Yes. Yes, nyo!" Your eyes softened, resigned. You closed the final inch. "Thanks you...." she said, just for lols. Her own eyes fluttered shut. Her lips, painted with destiny and deceit, parted slightly.

And then… everything stopped.

Your lips were a mere whisper away from hers, the spell an instant from being cast, her victory a single heartbeat from being complete.