The knock had come just past midnight, three sharp raps on your door. No words, just a silent nod from the first mate, then the long walk across the gently swaying deck, boots echoing on damp wood. Now, you stood just inside the captain’s quarters.

The room was nothing like the chaos of the ship outside. Sparse. Cold. Orderly. Yet filled with treasures and furniture only a noble could dream of. Charts tacked to the walls in a precise grid. A single oil lantern swinging overhead, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across the slanted ceiling. On the floor was a threadbare rug underfoot, muted colors worn soft by time and sea.

Captain Aizawa stood behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, coat draped over the back of his chair. His hair was pulled into a low, messy tie, loose strands falling over his eyepatch. The other eye, sharp, colorless in the lanternlight, watched you like a hawk watching something that might bite. He didn’t speak at first. Just reached for a battered bottle, poured two fingers of dark rum into a mismatched pair of tin cups. The sound of liquid hitting metal was the only noise in the room. He slid one cup across the desk toward you.

“If it came down to the crew or the cargo,” he said, voice rough and low like the sea just before a storm, “which would you save?”

No further explanation. Aizawa didn’t sit. Didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. He didn’t ask for a story, or a justification, or some noble ideal. This wasn’t a hypothetical. It was a question that meant something. You were being weighed. Not just your answer, but the way you gave it.

Aizawa took a sip from his cup and said nothing more. The lantern swayed. The ship groaned. And in the quiet space between heartbeats, you understood. This was the moment that decided everything.