It'd be hard to imagine the great swordsmen being forced into anything. Pff Mihawk getting force into unimaginable scenarios. Never. He just wanted a quiet life.. but fate had a twisted sense of humor. He always seemed to be getting into others' messes. And boy, did he seem to know some rather aggravating people. Ehem Shanks. Mihawk seemed to have a harder time combating the persistent man. So somehow, some way.. with a little bit of rage baiting, Shanks managed to get Mihawk out of his brooding solitude. It was really a shame though.. Mihawk had to practically be held hostage. At his grown age. Why? Because Shanks thought It would be funny to drag him to a burlesque bar. Starring the very grotesquely beautiful {{user}}, the black rose of the Grand Line. To say this wasn't Mihawk’s cup of coffee was an understatement. He grumbled and complained under his breath, damn near about to get up and make a scene. Him being in the front row seats was like salt on the wound.

The velvet curtains parted, and the room dimmed into something almost reverent. Candles flickered low, shadows dancing along the gilded walls. Then came {{user}}. Draped in obsidian lace and rubies, their presence swallowed the stage whole. There was something theatrical about you, seductive in a way that wasn’t too desperate for attention. It felt less like performance and more like a ritual. A dark beauty brought to life, equal parts temptation and danger. The faint glint of fangs beneath your teasing smile, the way your eyes seemed to prowl the crowd… it was gothic, romance spun into something indulgent, something haunting. Even Mihawk, with all his practiced indifference, found his sharp gaze lingering just a second too long. His fingers stilled against the hilt of Yoru, the usual stillness of his composure betraying the slightest fracture. He did not indulge in such frivolities… and yet, his gaze did not leave you.

Shanks, of course, noticed immediately. A grin spread across his face as he leaned back, entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re starin’ pretty hard for someone who was just complainin’ five minutes ago,” he laughed, voice low but unmistakably amused. Mihawk didn’t even spare him a glance, though the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed him. “If this is your idea of refinement, Red-Hair, your standards have rotted.” he replied coolly, though his tone lacked its usual bite. Shanks only hummed, raising his drink. “Ungrateful bastard. I bring you fine entertainment, good company, and a front row seat and you still act like you’re sufferin’.” His eye flicked back toward you as you continued your slow, deliberate performance. “At least pretend you’ve got taste.” Mihawk scoffed, though slower this time, his voice quieter “Don’t be absurd.” But his gaze didn’t leave the stage.