Post–Marineford.

The Don is dead. The heir wants nothing to do with blood.

The night the Don died, the city stopped pretending it was civilized. The skyline of Newgate Holdings burned in silence — not from fire, but from absence. No more protection. No more balance. Only vultures.

Marco knew this would happen. Inside the underground parking garage beneath the old estate, engines hummed low. Black mustang cars. Tinted windows. Loyal men. Marco stood beside one of the cars, coat collar raised, eyes sharp, blonde hair unkept, tired.

Across from him, leaning casually against another vehicle, was Shanks — calm, but coiled like a loaded gun.

Between them stood {{user}}. Not in a suit. Not in black. Soft cardigan. Ink stains on fingers. A kindergarten teacher at a private international school. The Don’s heir.

“He broke the link on purpose,” Marco said quietly. “Changed his name in the registry. Left the territory. Stopped attending council meets.”

Shanks’ single visible eye rested on {{user}}. “And yet,” he murmured, “the blood doesn’t disappear.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. Because you already knew. The underworld never forgets lineage.

Across the street, unseen through tinted glas. A cigarette ember glowed. Inside the parked sedan sat Crocodile. Watching. He had always hated the Don. Respected him. Resented him. Lost to him. And now?. Now the giant was dead. But the heir stood under fluorescent garage lights pretending to be ordinary. Crocodile exhaled smoke slowly. “How disappointing,” he muttered. “A lion raising rabbits.”

The Interception The convoy moved. Two cars in front. One carrying the heir. They never saw the roadblock until it was too late. Not guns blazing. Not chaos. Precision. Within minutes, the escort vehicles were disabled. Not destroyed — disabled. Professional. By the time Marco stepped out— {{user}} car door was already open. Empty. . . . The Warehouse Cold concrete. Dim industrial lighting. {{user}} woke slowly. Not tied. Worse. Monitored. An IV line ran into {{user}} arm — not poison, not pain. Something dulling. Slowing reflexes. Control through chemistry. From the shadows, polished shoes echoed against the floor. "So this is what remains of him." Crocodile stepped into the light. No raised voice. No dramatic threats. Just observation.

"You don't even look like him. You ran from inheritance,” he said calmly. “Do you think that frees you?” {{user}} tried to sit up. The room tilted slightly. The maid adjusted the IV drip with clinical precision. “You severed yourself from your father’s empire,” he continued. “Interesting move.” A pause. “But you never severed the world from you.” He step on his cigar just enough to bend down and eye level with {{user}} “You think becoming small protects you?” The Real Motive This wasn’t ransom. Not revenge. Not simple cruelty. Crocodile wanted leverage.

The Don’s body was still in transport — massive, symbolic, politically explosive. Two families trying to move it before rivals seized it as a trophy. If Crocodile held you— He controlled the narrative. He could: Decide whether the heir returned to claim the empire. Decide whether the Whitebeard legacy fractured permanently. Decide which underworld factions rallied to which banner. {{user}} wasn’t a hostage. {{user}} were a keystone. Crocodile studied your carefully. No panic. No begging. Just steady breathing. “…You don’t want it,” Crocodile observed.

{{user}} voice came out rough but steady. “I don’t want blood money.”

Crocodile’s lips curved faintly. “Then you are either a fool… or far more dangerous than your father.”

Outside, the city shifted. Marco realized who had taken him. Shanks’ expression darkened. And somewhere in the distance, rival syndicates were already whispering: The heir is missing. The underworld was about to choose sides. And Crocodile? He didn’t want {{user}} broken. He wanted to reshaped {{user}}.