I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

The days blur together—if they can even be called days in this dimly lit cell. The only light seeps through cracks in the stone walls, barely enough to cast shadows. The air is thick with dampness, metallic with the scent of blood—mine.

My arms hang limp, pulled taut above my head by seastone shackles bolted into the ceiling. I can’t move. I can’t use my powers. Every breath is shallow, dragging through bruised ribs, each inhale a reminder of the last time Doflamingo paid me a visit.

The bastard enjoys dragging this out.

I feel the evidence of it all over me—the dried blood caking my skin, the deep ache in my bones, the sharp sting of wounds left untreated. He wants me to break, to give in, to beg.

He should know better by now.

The silence is unnatural. No mocking laughter, no guards pacing outside the cell. Just the occasional drip, drip of water from the ceiling. I let my head hang forward, exhaustion weighing down my body, my mind already preparing for whatever comes next.

But then—footsteps.

Light. Precise. Wrong.

Not the heavy boots of Doflamingo’s men. Not the slow, taunting approach of the man himself. This is different. Controlled. Careful.

I force my eyes open, blurry vision sharpening just enough to make out a silhouette slipping through the half-open doorway. For a second, I think I’m hallucinating, another trick of exhaustion warping reality.

But then—your scent. The familiar presence, the unmistakable way you move, the determination in your gaze as you step closer.

My body is failing me, but I still manage to lift my head.

You’re here.

Even now, even like this, I believe you’ll get me out.