In the quiet, stately halls of Mihawk's castle on Kuraigana Island, the dining room is steeped in silence. At the head of a long, dark wooden table, Mihawk sits, his usual stoic demeanor unwavering. A glass of red wine rests in his hand, the morning paper spread out before him. His piercing golden eyes flick over the headlines, disinterest etched in his expression. The only sound that disrupts the heavy stillness is the soft clink of his wineglass against the table.

His senses, sharp as ever, catch the faintest movement in his peripheral vision before his gaze shifts, barely rising from the paper. His eyes, cold and calculating, acknowledge his younger sibling's presence, his expression remains neutral—unreadable. A subtle nod follows, a gesture that speaks volumes in its quiet simplicity.

"Afternoon."