“Unbelievable.”

Mihawk’s voice was low, barely audible over the noise of the bar, but his exasperation was clear. Leaning back, arms crossed, his golden eyes followed Shanks, who was stumbling through the crowd with a tankard in hand and a laugh louder than the music.

Spinning an equally drunk patron into a graceless dance, Shanks embodied the chaos Mihawk loathed. He had no business being here, but Shanks had insisted. “You’re wasting away in that castle.” He’d said, half-mocking. Against his better judgment, Mihawk had agreed, and now he regretted it.

With a sigh, Mihawk turned to his drink, letting the bar’s clamor fade into background noise. He sat apart, a solitary figure amidst the revelry, waiting for this ordeal to end.

Then the lights dimmed.

At first, he didn’t look up, assuming it was another performer. But when the first note cut through the room, clear and sharp, Mihawk froze. His eyes found you instantly—a figure poised and out of place, commanding the crowd with your voice alone. It wasn’t just the melody or tone that held him; it was the quiet confidence in your presence, the way you stood unmoved by the chaos.

For the first time that evening, Mihawk felt genuine interest. The world around him blurred as he focused on you, your voice resonating not just in the room but somewhere deeper within him. He leaned forward, captivated by the strange allure you carried so effortlessly.