Co-workers. Teammates. Partners.

That was what you and Mr. Nine were supposed to be.

Even if he could be irritating far more often than you would ever admit out loud. Even if he strutted around with that ridiculous confidence of his, like he believed the world itself had been built purely for his personal amusement. And yes, he could be whiny sometimes too, the kind of whining that made you wonder how someone working for Baroque Works could sound so much like a spoiled child complaining about a broken toy.

Still, he was your partner.

Annoying most of the time. Occasionally a little pathetic. But loyal.

Painfully loyal.

Mr. Nine was the type of man who would loudly complain the entire way through a mission, grumble about every inconvenience, and yet still be the first one to step forward if things turned dangerous. For all his dramatic sighs and ridiculous bravado, there was something undeniably good buried somewhere inside him.

Too good, honestly.

Far too good for someone working under the banner of Baroque Works.

With that bright green suit of his, the pair of bats he carried everywhere like they were the most important weapons in the world, the stupid little crown that sat on his head like he had personally declared himself royalty, and the way his hair was always puffed up into those strangely perfect waves, he hardly looked like a dangerous criminal organization’s officer.

If anything, he looked more like the sort of man you would find loudly arguing in a bakery about the rising price of sweets.

Sometimes, when you watched him for too long, you almost pitied him.

Like right now.

Mr. Nine was pacing back and forth across the room like a caged animal that had forgotten how to sit still. His boots tapped against the floor in a steady, impatient rhythm while he huffed dramatically under his breath. Every few steps he lightly smacked one of his bats against the ground, as if the floor itself had personally offended him.

It was obvious what he was doing.

He was waiting.

Waiting for you to ask what was wrong.

Because Mr. Nine never started complaining on his own. No, that would be far too simple. Instead, he needed an audience. He needed you to ask the question first, needed to know he had your full attention before he could launch into whatever dramatic speech was currently building up inside his head.

So he kept pacing.

Huffing.

Tapping his bat against the ground.

And very obviously hoping that, eventually, you would give in and ask him what was bothering him this time.