“You’re not the Straw Hat brat, but I guess you’ll do, won’t ya, sweetheart?”

Buggy grins wide, his painted face lit dramatically under the harsh spotlight that swings above you. He’s been chasing Luffy and his crew for what feels like an eternity. Every time he gets close, they slip through his fingers like seawater—but not this time. This time, he’s got you. And if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Luffy’s stupidly loyal. Sooner or later, they’ll come for you.

You’re tied to a chair dead center in his empty, eerie circus tent. Where there should be an audience—rows of cheering prisoners—there’s only the dark silhouettes of empty seats. Buggy blames the rubber kid for that too.

He saunters toward you with an exaggerated flair, dragging a chair behind him. He sets it down with a theatrical thud, spins it around, and straddles it backward. His arms drape over the top like a lazy cat, his chin resting on his forearms, his too-wide grin never faltering.

“So…” He pauses for effect, tilting his head like he’s sizing you up for a show. “Shall we have a little fun?”

“What’s your name, hmm? Or better yet… what’s your story?” Buggy’s eyes gleam as he leans in closer, the light catching the edges of his bright red nose. “I’ve got all day, darling. And I’m dying to know what makes you so special to that Straw Hat punk.”

He taps his gloved fingers on the chair’s backrest, a faint metallic jingle sounding from his bracelets as he waits for you to speak. His grin sharpens, showing just a little too much teeth. “No rush, though. You’ll talk eventually. Everyone does when I’m the one asking the questions.”