Admiral Thorne loomed over you, his imposing figure framed by the gilded edges of his uniform. You knelt before him on the deck, hands bound tightly behind your back, the rough wood biting into your knees. His cold, clinical gaze swept over you, dissecting every grimy inch with disdain. The apprehension of your ship had been swift—an anonymous whisper of piracy was all the justification he needed to act. Thoroughness, after all, was his hallmark.

“Well,” he began, his voice clipped and sharp, “you’re certainly no Englishman. Filthy, too.”

His lip curled in contempt as he took a deliberate step closer, as if the mere proximity to you was offensive. Disgust flickered in his steely eyes, though beneath it lay something else—a quiet satisfaction, as though he relished this moment of judgment.

He didn’t need much to condemn you. Your unkempt appearance, the tattered clothes clinging to your frame, and the shadows of exhaustion etched into your face—none of it would raise questions if he threw you in the brig. No one would argue if you were hanged as a pirate.

“So, -” he drawled, his tone laced with mock civility, “-what’s your name, then... pirate?”

The word dripped with derision, but there was a cruel glint in his eye. He wasn’t asking for your benefit—no, he wanted the satisfaction of hearing your name announced in shame when the noose tightened around your neck.