The girls were a hassle. A real, full-bodied, emotional headache dressed in soft skin and louder-than-necessary voices. The moment the word business left my mouth, they snapped. Clung to me like I'd just declared I was auctioning them off at the next underground market.
"Watashi wa ī ko yo. Anata no tame ni ryōri suru wa!"
"I'm a good girl! I'll cook for you!"
Tears, wailing, hands grabbing at my shirt, my arms, my belt—one of them even reached dangerously close to my grenade pouch. I slapped the hand away with a sharp tch. Not hard. Just enough to remind them that kindness didn't mean stupidity. Just because I'd draped my jacket over their shoulders didn't mean I was theirs to manipulate.
They didn't know me. But I knew them.
I gritted my teeth and lifted them both, one at a time, arms hooked under their armpits like misbehaving kittens. They didn't weigh much, but they made sure to squirm enough to make the task awkward. Their skin was soft. Too soft. It stuck in my thoughts a second longer than I wanted it to.
Who am I kidding? I liked it.
They screamed—until I shot them a look that could've chilled fire. Silence.
I brought them to a row of old barrels lashed to the mast and dropped them—unceremonious, hard enough to remind them I wasn't playing nursemaid. They landed with thuds and groans, rubbing their backsides and glaring at me like I'd betrayed some unspoken contract.
"Suwaru."
Sit.
They sat.
I pulled out the blood-specked bounty paper from my coat. The image of the pirate captain, the one I'd sliced open not long ago, was still mostly visible—cocky smirk, scar down his cheek. 18 million berries for that face. I pointed at the image, then pointed at myself.
"Bauntihantā."
They stared. The wheels behind their eyes turned. Carina's lips twitched. Nami tilted her head, no longer wide-eyed and soft-voiced. That switch—going from helpless to calculating—it was almost mechanical.
They understood now. This wasn't some slave trader ship. I wasn't a trafficker. I wasn't their next captor. I was a bounty hunter. The kind who made his money slicing throats and cashing receipts. And that changed everything.
Earning their trust in a single conversation? Impossible. But that? That bought me something else—caution, maybe even a sliver of respect. I'd treated them with enough gentleness not to be hated and enough cold efficiency not to be underestimated.
Time to keep the momentum.
I reached into my coat again, the one I put on Nami and pulled out my map—or what was left of it. The thing had been shot through in six different places and was half-soaked in blood, some of it mine. Three months at sea, no contact with another human being, no landmarks, no marine patrols, nothing. Supernatural? Maybe. But I didn't have time to question the void I'd drifted through. I just needed a damn Marine base now to exchange my bounty and I didn't know where to find one.
But she would.
The orange-haired girl.
Nami. The best navigator the Grand Line had ever coughed up. The one who could read the sky like it was a personal diary. Who could smell a storm three islands away. The woman even Shiki the Golden Lion had tried—and failed—to kidnap for her talent.
I pointed at the mess of a map. "Kaihei-tai kichi. Doko ni aru ndesu ka?"
Marine base. Where is it?
She blinked at me. Then blinked again. Her eyes scanned the torn parchment like she was trying to make sense of a drunken child's finger painting. Then she looked at me, confusion melting into disbelief.
Like I was mad.
Well I did give her a map that was blood red and full of holes after all.
I shrugged. I didn't know. She would.
She sighed, long and dramatic, and turned to Carina. They exchanged a look. No words. Just one of those silent, complex conversations only people who've spent way too long scamming others together could have. Carina raised an eyebrow. Nami narrowed her eyes. A decision was made.
And then came the map.
From her chest.
She reached into the space between her cleavage and pulled out a rolled parchment—pristine, long, detailed. I stared—not at her chest, not at the skin or the curve of anything—but at the physical impossibility of it all.
The map was longer than her torso.
There was no way it had been in there comfortably.
I rubbed my eyes. Genuinely confused. My thoughts weren't perverted. They were logistical. How the hell did a flat parchment sit rolled in a space barely big enough for a coin pouch? Was it folded in half? Triple-rolled? Made of some weird flexible sea silk?
I was studying a mystery of the One Piece world and that was it. I swear.
But Nami didn't see it that way. Her expression shifted—mock outrage, a raised brow, a puff of the chest. As if she'd caught me ogling.
And she squeezed.
A deliberate move.
Carina mirrored her with a light gasp and a playful moan that could've made the clouds blush. As if the act of pulling out a map had turned into some kind of impromptu burlesque show.
I held up both hands. "Yare yare..."
Bruh. I wasn't being a pervert.
Science. That's all it was. I'd seen devil fruit users bend reality. I'd watched giants hurl ships. I had seen Leviathans so big they dwarfed the starry skies. But this? This was the one that truly made me question the laws of the world.
Still... I did enjoy the view. I wouldn't lie to myself. Just not for the reasons they thought.
Nami handed over the map, her fingers brushing mine, eyes watching for a flinch. I didn't give her one. I rolled it open across a crate and let my eyes drink in the details. This was no average merchant's copy. This was drawn by someone experienced. Routes, trade winds, patrol patterns, storm markers.
It was beautiful.
"Hōshō-kin kōkan."
Bounty Exchange.
---------------
These girls had spunk. Unfiltered, weaponized, tactical-grade spunk.
The moment I said the words Bounty Exchange, it was like I'd triggered some kind of emotional landmine. Both of them—Nami and Carina—sprang to life like I'd promised them eternal youth. They leapt at me, voices rising in a tangle of pleas, negotiation tactics, and shameless persuasion.
And I mean shameless.
Bargaining for a cut of the bounty when they hadn't even drawn blood? No hesitation. No shame. Just pure audacity, like they'd rehearsed the routine in front of a mirror a hundred times. At first, I resisted. I wasn't a damn charity. I'd done the fighting, the bleeding, the killing. They'd hidden, schemed, and stole—admirably, sure—but from a safe distance. But every time I opened my mouth to tell them no, they hit me with something new.
A pout here. A squeeze there.
And don't get me started on the moans. Carina, with that sugar-laced, perfectly timed sound that should be illegal in a negotiation. It was like she knew the exact frequency to hit that would short-circuit my brain. Nami didn't even need to say much—she just slid closer. Too close. That kind of close where her thigh brushed mine and her breath tickled my neck as if she was making a point about inflation and market value while turning my face into a furnace.
And the worst part?
They were reading me like I was a poster on a tavern wall.
They knew I wasn't going to hurt them. They knew I wasn't going to throw them overboard. They knew—knew—I wasn't made of stone. After three months alone in the water, talking to the damn clouds and treating seagulls like conversational partners, I was starving for human contact. And they knew it.
They weren't just taking advantage of me.
They were measuring my breaking point too. Hell they were modifying it to suit their liking.
And they hit it with surgical precision.
I ended up giving them two shares out of ten from the bounty. One for each. On top of that, we made an agreement for the treasure from their ship. They'd take 70%, and I'd get 30%. Seemed like a decent deal, until I remembered who I was dealing with.
By the time I realized what I'd agreed to, my palm was on my face so hard I could see stars.
How had it happened?
Oh right—because Carina made a sound that shorted my brain, and Nami leaned in so close I could feel her heartbeat. That's how.
Should I be ashamed? Probably.
Proud? Maybe.
I mean, how many men could say they were bamboozled by two of the most beautiful thieves in the world and lived to laugh about it?
But why the fuck was I acting like a damn virgin who hadn't touched a woman?
I'd like to think I took the best route possible under the circumstances. In my defense, three months at sea with nothing but dead fish and nightmares for company and a banquet with monkeys doesn't exactly build mental resistance. I'd craved conversation, warmth, a sense of connection. They offered that. Sure, they also swindled me in the process—but at least I got a hug and few advantages weebs would die for.
When the deal was sealed, they hugged me first. Tight, squealing with delight. Then each other, like they'd just robbed a Celestial Dragon's vault. It should've annoyed me. And it did—partially. But part of me felt something warm too, like I'd won something despite the clear loss.
Yeah, I knew what was coming.
With their history, they'd already hidden most of the best loot. The thirty percent they promised me would probably boil down to twenty. Maybe less. They'd strip every valuable item they could pry loose and still smile at me like they'd done me a favor.
But I wasn't stupid. I made sure there was a clause in our unspoken deal: they only got their share if they helped me sell the goods and exchange the bounty. If they wanted their payday, they'd have to work for it. And surprisingly, they agreed. Enthusiastically, even.
Our eyes met. A brief moment of alignment. Not trust—but understanding.
The girls got to work immediately, scouring every square inch of their ship like scavengers in a warzone. They didn't move like ordinary thieves. They were efficient, almost militant. I watched as they found hidden compartments I hadn't even noticed, pulling out stashed gems, rolled-up paintings, half-full sake barrels, sealed crates of gunpowder, high-grade silk garments. You name it, they found it.
They even brought me over when they found something heavy or too awkward to carry solo. I played along, lifted crates, passed bags, kept mental notes of everything.
While they stripped their ship bare, I went back to the corpses. The bounty posters I'd taken helped me identify a few more familiar faces. One guy with a jagged scar and missing eye—worth 4 million. Another with twin machetes and a tattoo on his jaw—2.5 million. A bald brute with gold teeth—maybe 3 million. That made roughly 9 million in new bounties on top of the previous haul.
Just the corpses I could identify amounted to nearly 50 million. Add the captain's 18 million, and I was walking toward a potential payday of over 60 million berries. That was, of course, assuming the Bounty Exchange Center didn't try to haggle me down or dispute any of the kills.
The one of the pirate I left tied up and alive had a bounty of 3 million. I didn't need to monitor him. The girls wouldn't miss a thing. Not with eyes like theirs.
Once the valuables were gathered, we started transferring them to the oak ship—the only one seaworthy after the earlier chaos. It took more trips than I wanted to admit. I thought they'd take the major goods and leave the junk, but no. They took everything. Spare planks. Ropes. Sails. Even a toilet seat lid. I wish I was joking.
By the time the sun was halfway down the sky, the girls had stripped their ship like vultures picking a carcass clean. They came back, arms loaded, grinning like bandits—which, technically, they were. I carried the loot over multiple trips, most of it heavier goods: weapons, sealed liquor crates, a damaged but repairable Den Den Mushi communicator. I even helped break off chunks of the ship's hull.
I didn't know whether to be proud of them or scared of them.
Because here's the truth: I'd fought pirates, monsters, marines, and worse. But nothing in the sea had tested my patience, negotiation skills, and moral compass quite like these two women.
Yet somehow, I didn't hate it.