In the quiet, stately halls of Mihawk's castle on Kuraigana Island, the dining room exudes a certain silence. At the head of a long, dark wooden table, Mihawk sits with his usual stotic demeanor, a glass of red wine in one hand, and the morning paper spread before him. His piercing golden eyes flick over the headlines with disinterest, The soft clink of his wineglass meeting the table is the only sound that breaks the room's deep silence.

Mihawk's senses, ever sharp, catch the movement before his eyes rise from the newsprint. He lifts his gaze just enough to acknowledge his younger siblings presence, his expression impassive but not unkind. A subtle nod follows, a wordless gesture of recognition, at least where it counts, it's some form of acknowledgment from someone as closed off as mihawk.