I ended up helping Zyanya patch up, though not without sacrificing what remained of my brain cells in the process. And of course, that only made her smile widen like she'd just won a game I didn't even know I was playing.
It was then that I noticed it—her slave mark, burned deep into the skin of her left arm. My eyes lingered there for a moment too long, and I caught the way her gaze dimmed, just slightly, as though a shadow had crossed over her face.
Of course it did. That mark… it wasn't just a brand. It was a humiliation, a mark that said she was worth less than livestock.
I hated mine too. Even I feel the shame of carrying this mark, though at least mine sits on my back, easy to hide beneath rags. She doesn't have that luxury. Her clothes are sleeveless, and even if she wanted to, the rules forbid us from covering the mark with anything but the bare minimum of clothing. A rule designed for cruelty, nothing else.
Hers was exposed for the world to see—an open wound no bandage was allowed to cover.
Then she raised her right hand, gently covering the brand on her left arm. The motion was so instinctive, so vulnerable, that it actually made me stumble for a moment.
I had never seen anyone cover it like that.
Sure, everyone hates their mark. Everyone feels the sting of humiliation burned into their skin—but at the end of the day, it's just a mark. Something most of us eventually get used to, because what choice do we have? here in the corridor, the only ones without it are the guards. So why… why was she so embarrassed that she couldn't even let my eyes linger on it?
"Sorry," she said quietly, her voice softer than usual, stripped of its usual confidence, heavy with something like sorrow. "I don't feel comfortable if anyone sees this mark."
After fixing up a makeshift splint for her broken leg, I stood and admired my work. Not pretty, but functional. Good enough.
"Thanks, mijo." She smiled, softer this time—more genuine than before—but her right arm stubbornly stayed over that brand.
She pushed herself up, wobbling on her legs. I instinctively offered my hand. She took it with her left—her right never leaving its post guarding her shame—and with one good pull, she was on her feet. That's when it hit me: standing tall, Zyanya was much bigger than me. Of course she was; she was an adult. But after seeing her slumped against the wall all this time, I'd almost forgotten.
"Thanks again, mijo. I owe you a lot."
Then it happened. Without warning, she pulled me into a hug. Tight. Warm. For the first time, she even lowered her arm, leaving her mark exposed—just to embrace me.
My face? Buried right against her chest.
Soft. Round. Bouncy. Absolutely perfect. Ten out of ten.
"mph—mphph—!" I gasped into her, caught between suffocation and… well, a different kind of bliss.
She released me, and I stumbled back, desperate to hide the flush burning across my cheeks. I forced out a cough, trying to act annoyed. But the blood flooding my face betrayed me completely. My expression had already sold me out.
"Stop it, I'm not a kid, okay." I protested, bristling at the way she treated me—like I was some helpless little boy. Bro, I'm not that much younger than you. I'm in my twenties, for god's sake.
"I know."
When I looked back at her, she was smiling. Not the kind of smile that actually understood me, but the kind a mother gives when her teenager loudly declares they're an adult. Indulgent. Amused. And all the while, her right hand had already drifted back, covering the mark on her arm as if nothing had happened.
"By the way, I'll head back now. Let's meet again next week, okay?" she said, before turning and making her way toward the exit. At the entrance, she stopped to exchange a few words with one of the guards.
I just stood there, watching her back. Even with a splint on her left leg, she walked with such confidence, as if weakness wasn't even an option. Her body might falter, but her spirit refused to.
She was strong—through and through. Not just in the way she carried herself, but in the way her mind refused to bend. Yet… even a woman like her is still trying to hide that mark. That sign of humiliation she couldn't bear to show the world.
I kept watching until she finally disappeared from sight, her strong figure slowly fading, the chain on her arm tugging at her like a cruel reminder.
"You've already got a girlfriend back home. Don't be greedy, kid."
Darius' gruff voice broke through my thoughts, sounding far too amused for someone spitting nonsense.
"First of all, Hancock isn't my girlfriend. Second, Zyanya is someone I literally just met today. And third, she's way older than me." I shot back, keeping my tone flat. Older in body, anyway. But that wasn't something I'd ever say out loud.
And honestly… who in their right mind would even think about romance in a place like this?
Darius snorted, shaking his head. "Older? That's nothing. Some men would kill for a woman like her. You sure you ain't got a little crush, kid?"
I clenched my jaw. "I don't."
"Mm-hmm," he hummed like he didn't believe a word. "Saw the way your face turned red when she hugged you. Damn near looked like you were gonna faint. If she'd held you tighter, I'd have had to peel you off her chest."
"Shut up," I muttered, heat crawling back to my cheeks, which only made it worse.
--
The next day comes, and with it another haki training with Draven, then I can finally ask the question I held from last week.
"Draven, can I ask you something before we start?" I said, shifting my stance and resting my wrists on my knees.
"Ask away." He didn't even look at me, still stretching his scarred shoulders like the warm-up mattered more than whatever was on my mind.
"How did you practice Haki… while stuck in a cell?" The question slipped out before I could rethink it.
That finally got a grunt from him. "Hmph. I assume you've been taking Oliver's jobs, then?"
"Yeah." I hesitated. "But the way you said his name… it makes me wonder what your relationship with him is."
Draven chuckled, low and humorless. "Nothing, kid. Just old history, not worth digging up." He waved it away, then turned his sharp eyes back on me. "But I'll tell you this: if you've got only a little space to train, meditation is your best friend. At the end of the day, Haki's just the manifestation of will."
"Meditation, huh." The word slipped out, and my gaze wandered sideways to Darius.
He caught it immediately. "What?" His brow twitched like I'd just insulted his mother.
"Nothing," I said quickly, though my tone probably betrayed me. Hearing him say meditation was the best way to practice Haki made me remember Darius. He once told me meditation was useless—or well, that's not exactly what he said, but something along those lines. I guess I'm still a little salty about it.
"Of course," he went on, his tone suddenly teacher-like. "But you need specific goals, or your meditation's just you daydreaming in the dark. If you want it to be effective, set a target."
"What kind of target?" I asked.
"Something small. Something that forces your senses to sharpen. Like trying to hear what's far away, or what's so faint most wouldn't notice. For example…" He tapped his temple. "Listening for the guard's footsteps outside your cell. You figure out how many there are, how far, and then push further—listen to the quality of their steps. A heavy heel, a dragging toe… each detail tells you if they're tired, alert, or even afraid."
I blinked, realizing what he was suggesting. It wasn't just hearing footsteps. It was dissecting intent through sound.
"So… Observation Haki starts with paying attention to the kind of things most people ignore?" I said slowly.
Then, as if he hadn't just been doling out wisdom, he shoved a bundle of rags at us. "If you understand, use this—and run."
So we did. Blindfolds on, stumbling forward, and Draven didn't waste a second. Stones came flying, his voice barking insults and half-teachings in the same breath, like he'd mastered the art of humiliation as a teaching method. We ran like madmen, tripping, colliding, swearing under our breaths, until the guards decided enough was enough and hauled us back toward the construction site.
I worked through the afternoon, muscles screaming, until Jamie came to fetch me. Same routine: back toward the cells, but with a little detour to pick up food. As always, part of the rations got slid into the cell beside mine. Usually, Captain Oliver needed me to stash drugs during these errands, but today was an exception.
Not that it made me feel any safer. I already had several packages of his contraband hidden under my floor. Every time another one ended up in my hands, the unease got heavier. Because the truth was simple—the more I hid, the easier it would be for the guards to find it when they finally decided to search.
And because of that, I kept searching for a better hiding spot. But my world was small—too small. My cell and the Colosseum were the only places I could reliably reach. The construction sites were rotated daily, always different construction in different part of the city.
Hiding something there would just be like tossing it into the sea—gone and unreachable.
So for now, the problem would have to wait. I'd figure out where to stash Oliver's poison later. Right now, I needed strength. And Draven had just handed me a method I could use, even inside these cramped stone walls.
I sat down cross-legged on the cold floor, shutting my eyes. The cell was damp, smelled of rust and mold, but I pushed that aside. I tried to listen—really listen. To the guards' boots scraping against the ground as they patrolled, to the faint drip of water leaking from somewhere up above, to the near-invisible shuffle of an ant colony dragging crumbs across the floor.
It wasn't just sound. It was about peeling back layers, searching for meaning in the noise. Counting steps. Weighing pauses. Guessing moods from the way a heel struck stone. Draven said Haki was will made manifest, but sitting here, straining my ears for the heartbeat of an insect, it felt more like madness.
Still… if madness could keep me alive, I'd embrace it.
But the truth is, it's hard—really hard. I can catch the sound of boots on stone, the drip of water echoing in the corner, but that's it turning those noises into meaning? Knowing how many guards there are, how far, or what mood they're in from their steps? That's still beyond me. The idea of reading intent from a sound? That feels galaxies away.
I knew from the start that learning Haki wouldn't be simple or fast. Still, after weeks of training with Darius, and to feel so little progress eats at me. Sure, there were those rare moments—like with that one speedy bastard, the Captain Kuro wannabe. For a split second, I felt something. A spark, a presence. But it vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me stranded in the dark again.
And that gnaws at me. Especially now. Every week I'm thrown into the ring, forced to fight, bleed, and survive. Every week the stakes rise, especially with my bet with a damn Celestial Dragon. Sure, I'll pretend to lose, but if only I am stronger than my opponents, or else whoever he prepares to fight me can kill me. Patience might be the path to Haki, but patience is a luxury I don't have.