As I woke, the first thing that greeted me wasn't the light or the ceiling above—it was pain. Blinding, suffocating pain, spreading from every inch of my body. It felt as if a truck had rolled over me on some German highway, every bone shattered, every muscle screaming.
I squirmed weakly, my ribs protesting the movement, and that was when I realized—I wasn't alone.
The sound must have given me away.
A shadow leaned closer. Not a guard, not a fellow slave. A man. White, spotless lab coat. A headlamp was beaming directly into my face, forcing my eyes to squint. He had a neatly trimmed brown mustache, piercing blue eyes that studied me with clinical detachment, and a stethoscope dangling from his neck.
He didn't look relieved I was alive.
He looked curious.
"Oh, you're awake?"
The man's voice was flat, as if he were telling the weather. No warmth, no surprise—just like kicking another pebble on the side of the road.
"Who… are you?" I rasped, trying to push myself up. The moment I moved, I felt the pull of restraints. My wrists, my ankles—bound tight. Cold leather biting into raw skin.
Memory came rushing back like the faster than fastest train in the world. The colosseum. The sand. That thing—that giant more than eight meters tall, breaking me like I was nothing. My chest tightened with the ghost of his fists slamming into me.
No wonder I hurt.
No wonder I couldn't move.
And now… tied up, locked down, under the gaze of a man in a spotless lab coat.
This wasn't treatment.
This was punishment.
Now that I look around, the white walls close in on me. This room… I've been here before.
Last month.
I remember the dark. The smell of iron and blood in the air. Tools dangling from the walls—hooks, saws, pliers, some I've never seen before. I remember being strapped down the same way, only worse. My jaw locked shut by leather, like they wanted me to choke on my own screams.
Wire biting into raw flesh as they stitched me back together like a broken doll.
I've been here before.
And I barely left in one piece.
"You don't remember me?" His voice carried no warmth, no surprise; he just stroked his mustache with a gloved hand, eyes narrowing in thought, the light from his headlamp turning his gaze into something cold and surgical.
"Hmm… maybe you didn't see me last time."
He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle he half-forgotten on a shelf.
"Maybe this will make you remember me."
Without warning, the blade kissed my skin. A flash of pain ripped through me before I even registered his hand had moved. My right cheek split open, hot blood spilling down as I finally saw the scalpel glinting in his grip—already stained red.
Ahhhhhh
"How about that—do you remember me now?" His voice was flat, stripped of any emotion, and that was what unsettled me most. He spoke as though he were asking about the weather.
Then he tilted his head, almost amused. "Ah… it just hit me. You'll have a problem talking in your situation, won't you?" You're a genius, man, who would have thought that cutting someone's cheek open would make it hard for them to talk.
"Let me fix it."
He reached under the bed and pulled out a coil of wire—the same cruel thread that held my left cheek together. Now he wanted to do the same to my right cheek.
When he leaned in with the wire and needle, I thrashed violently, jerking my head side to side. No way in hell I was letting him stitch me up again with that damned wire. Unlike last time, my head wasn't strapped down, and I used every ounce of freedom I had, snapping away from each jab of the needle. His brow furrowed, knitting together, the first expression in his otherwise calm, flat mask..
"You're making this difficult for me." His voice was still flat, but there was the faintest edge of irritation. He stepped away, the creak of the door spilling a glimpse of that familiar dark corridor into the room. When he returned, he wasn't alone. A guard followed at his heel, wordless, hands like iron as they clamped around my skull and forced it still. The doctor fastened the straps around my head—just like before.
I thrashed harder, every ounce of strength I had burning out in violent jerks, but it was useless. The pain in my body from the fight already-chewing through me, and the sharp pain in my torn cheek, only dragged me deeper. I couldn't keep dodging those cursed needles forever. Fatigue pressed on me like a mountain, crushing the last scraps of resistance from my limbs.
As he strapped my head in place and began stitching my torn cheek, I thrashed again—but weaker this time, the fight already draining out of me. Each pull of the wire burned fire into my flesh, forcing groans and ragged screams from my throat. He didn't flinch. He took his sweet time, every motion precise, every knot deliberate. To him, I wasn't a man writhing in agony—I was nothing more than a broken doll he was calmly repairing.
As time dragged on, he finally snipped the end of the wire, sealing the torment with one last sting. The endless fire in my cheek dulled to a throbbing ache. Only then did he loosen the strap around my head.
"So… do you remember me now?" he asked again, the same question as before. His voice was calm, unshaken, not a drop of sweat on his brow—like this was nothing more than routine.
"Yes… I know you."
The words crawled out of my mouth, shredded by pain, my voice breaking with every syllable. I forced them out slowly, careful not to tear the flesh bound together by wire—though I knew damn well the steel wouldn't break so easily.
"Good."
That single word was all he gave me, delivered without pause. Then he turned on his heel, footsteps already carrying him toward the door, as though the only reason he'd come was to confirm my recognition.
"Wait, what's your name?" I asked to remember him, to etch his name and face in my brain, and to gauge the possibilities of his strength.
"Right, it's easier to be remembered if you know my name." After a bit of paused, he tells me his name. "It's Dr. Mario De Marco." Then his stat sheet pop out the moments I learned his name.
[Mario De Marco – Age: 33 | Male]
Strength: C
Speed: A
Stamina: B
Devil Fruit: N/A
Armament Haki: D
Observation Haki: A
Conqueror's Haki: N/A
Intelligence: S
Charisma: F
Leadership: F+
Combat Skill: B+
Not the best stats I've seen. Most of them is in B or under it, and the only thing breaking pas B was his intelligence which is in S. Makes sense he calls himself a "doctor." He's got some talent for speed and Observation Haki too, I'll give him that. But it won't matter. One day, he'll die. And it'll be by my hands. The only good thing about him is his name, props to his parents.
Still lost in my thoughts—visions of his blood dripping from my hands, his head rolling at my feet—he had already vanished into the corridor's darkness.
Then the guard from before loosened the straps binding my body and hauled me back to my cell. The moon hung high as we walked through the city—silent, hollow, broken only by the occasional patrol and the faint glow of lamps flickering in a handful of windows. Beyond that, the streets were deserted, swallowed by stillness.
The eerie night of the Holy Land stirred memories of what should come a few years from now—a night where flames would devour parts of the city, and a certain fishman would tear open the chains of countless slaves, while dragging the Holy Land's reputation through the mud.
--
When we reached the building that held my cell, my steps grew slower with each pace. The closer we got, the heavier the thought pressed on me—how could I keep Hancock from seeing me like this? I didn't want to add the weight that has already crushing her. Her situation alone was enough to shatter most children. My suffering… that was mine to bear, not hers.
After a short walk, I spotted a sack discarded in the corner. I stopped in my tracks, refusing to move further, fixing the guard with pleading eyes—or maybe it was just sheer stubbornness carved into my glare.
"What?" His irritation bled through his voice, but the stubborn part of me refused to move.
"can you pick that sack? And cover my head with it." I jerked my chin toward the corner. He followed my gaze, eyes landing on the sack, yet made no effort to move. I rooted my feet deeper into the ground, unyielding.
For a long moment, he just stared, bloodshot eyes narrowing at me. Then, with a sharp exhale of frustration, he finally give up. Snatching up the sack, he yanked it over my head without a word, the rough burlap swallowing my world in darkness.
How did I know this guard would give up and grab the sack for me, you ask? Because I know this man. Sometimes he leads the construction work, and whenever he does, the slaves feel a rare relief—because he's kinder than the rest, a guard who doesn't belong in this rotten place. Even earlier, when he held my head down, I saw the reluctance in his eyes. I don't even know his name, but I'll remember him.
With the sack over my head, I couldn't see a thing as we reached my cell. But sight wasn't needed—the nameless guard guided me straight to it. That's when I heard it: the sound of someone stirring awake… then the quick patter of feet rushing closer.
"V… are you okay?" I couldn't see, but that voice was etched so deep into my mind I could never mistake it. And only one person ever called me V—and it was her.
"I'm good." My voice came out warped, nothing like usual—but I could cover it later with the same lie as last time. A dislocated jaw after a fight wasn't exactly uncommon in this place.
Before she could say another word, the guard shoved me into the cell and slammed the door shut, the sound of his footsteps fading as he left without a glance back.
"Why is there a sack on your face?" Hancock's voice bled through the bars, worry laced with a fragile relief at seeing me returned alive.
"So I wouldn't catch a glimpse of the nobles' dirty little secrets while they dragged me through their palaces?" I lied smoothly, masking the truth—that I simply didn't want her to see the fresh cuts torn into my face.
Then came silence. I hate silence. It gnawed at me, whispering doubts I couldn't push away. Did she buy my bullshit, or did she see straight through it? From the weight of that pause, I feared the latter. Maybe all I'd done was make her worry even more—hiding behind a sack, hiding behind lies, when she already had enough to carry.
"Hancock, you there?" My voice came out broken, cracked in places I couldn't hide.
"Yeah." Just one word, low and fragile, slipped back to me.
"Why'd you go silent all of a sudden?" I pressed, worried about the storm brewing in her head.
"It's nothing… it's just—" her voice faltered, trembling on the edge of breaking. "It's hard to live in this place." She held the words together, but I could hear the cracks, the trembles in her voices the tears she refused to let fall.
Looks like my lies aren't the problem—she's had a rough day too, just like me. Her voice carries that same tremor it did back when she first ate her Devil Fruit, that fragile break hidden under the surface.
"Did something happen today?" I asked carefully. I knew it was a sensitive question, maybe one that could cut deeper. But not knowing would gnaw at me worse than her silence.
"Nothing, I just worked too much today."
Yeah, right. I don't believe a word of it. Hancock is stronger than most adults I've ever seen—she wouldn't break down just because she was 'overworked.' No, something else broke her today, and she's hiding it from me. Maybe it's the same trick I pulled on her, covering up the truth so she wouldn't burden me with her problems. Especially after I showed up with a sack over my head like some sad joke.
Uno reverse card, huh? Guess now we're both playing the same game. Hiding some burdens from each other.