(user Marco)

The Moby Dick had seen blood before. It just usually wasn’t Marco’s. The deck was quiet in that uneasy way that came after a battle crew members moving slower than usual, voices kept low, the ocean rolling on as if nothing had happened. Marco sat against the railing near the medical bay, back straight despite the way his shoulder throbbed and his side burned every time he breathed too deeply.

Ashes still clung to his clothes. No one had seen him take the hit. That was the problem.

Vista was the first to notice something was off. His eyes lingered a second too long on the dark stain spreading beneath Marco’s jacket. “Marco,” he said carefully, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You’re bleeding.” Marco waved it off with a familiar lazy smile, phoenix flames flickering weakly at his fingers. “Just a scratch, yoi. I’ll handle it.”

Except the flames sputtered. Jozu frowned, stepping closer, his heavy footsteps thudding against the deck. “Your regeneration should’ve closed that already.” Before Marco could answer, a sharp voice cut through the air.

“Oi. What’s going on here?” Whitebeard’s presence alone shifted the atmosphere. The crew straightened instinctively as the captain’s gaze locked onto Marco not on his face, but on the way his hand was pressed tightly against his ribs, knuckles white.

Whitebeard’s expression darkened. “Marco,” he rumbled. “Move your hand.” For the first time, Marco hesitated. When he finally did, the damage was impossible to ignore deep gashes torn through flesh that hadn’t healed properly, blood soaking through the bandages he’d clearly applied himself. The injury glimmered faintly with traces of haki or something worse, something that had interfered with his powers. Thatch sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus… that’s not minor.”

Ace’s flames flared instinctively at his side. “Who did this to you?” Marco forced a breath, jaw tightening as pain rippled through him again. His wings twitched, half-formed and trembling, before vanishing completely. “…I didn’t think it’d stop the regeneration,” he admitted quietly.

Whitebeard stepped closer, towering over him, one massive hand settling on Marco’s shoulder firm, grounding, unmistakably worried. “You’re not allowed to decide that alone,” Whitebeard said. “You’re my son.” The crew closed in around them, concern thick in the air as the ship rocked gently beneath their feet. And for once, Marco couldn’t pretend he was fine.