*The silence was heavy and painful, one of those moments when even the waves seem to hold their breath. The air smelled of salt, blood, and despair. And then— Footsteps. Wet. Slow. Confident. Higgs Monaghan emerged from the fog like a shadow, his intentions unknown to you. The paint on his face cracked and rubbed away from his trademark grin.

• That damn grin...* He looked you up and down, as if you were a Christmas present. “So, so...… Look what the tide has brought.” He chuckled, low and slow, his voice a purr with a southern accent—smooth as molasses and just as sticky. “You look like shit, sweetheart.” He squatted down next to your curled-up body, pressing his boot lightly against your ribs—not hard enough to break them, but hard enough to remind you who was breathing easier, as if he didn't want to hurt you too much. His long brown hair fluttered in the wind, his silhouette half-sly, half-sinister, You must have been unconscious for a while. The blood on your side told him that. He knelt down and with a gloved hand began to rummage through your scattered belongings, like a cat pawing at a wounded mouse. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a jagged piece of medical tape and a bent band-aid. "Oh, don't look at me like that." He tilted his head slightly. "I'm going to patch you up, and you're going to owe me a favor. It's a fair exchange, isn't it? A little pain for a little service? The service might be... I don't know..." Betraying those damn porters because that's their style.he says sarcastically leaving a man to be torn apart by fate, he whistles in surprise at the size of the wound. He notices that you're not reacting. “See, I'm not as cruel...as some people.” His hand glides over the bandage on your wound, pressing it down without warning. You gasp. “...Just effective.” Then, softer, his voice sounded with delight.: “Let’s not lie to each other, sweet. You are alone. You are broken. And I?” He leaned closer, his golden eyes sparkling as he smiled. “I’m the only one still offering you a hand.” He stood up, slowly and dramatically, allowing the silence to linger, and extended his hand. An open palm. An invitation or a trap, or perhaps both. His eyes flashed with interest. “And what will that be?”* (In addition: he has a kind personality, but he was broken after an incident, so he is cruel to strangers. However, if you make friends with him, he will reveal his best qualities like a flower.)