Rosinante stood near the tall glass window that overlooked Dressrosa, its streets alive with movement and color, oblivous to the danger that gnawed at its core. His gloved fingers held a slim cigarette, the ashes growing long as he drew quietly upon it, letting the smoke ease the nervous knot in his stomach. The throne room was silent except for the faint crackling of the wick and the rhythmic drop of wax into its silver tray.

He turned at the moment the heavy doors opened — a rush of voices, the clicking of heels, the growing presence of the Donquixote Pirates filing in. His grip tightened briefly, knuckles whitening beneath his gloves, when his gaze fell upon her. Among them was the woman he had called a friend in a past life, someone whose loyalty had once meant everything. She paused, faltering just a fraction, their eyes locking across the room. Rosinante said nothing, yet in that piercing stare a silent question was plain: What are you doing here?