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Chapter 2 - Chapter 1 - The man adrift

The sea was quiet that evening. Not peaceful — quiet.

There was a difference, Shanks thought as he leaned over the railing of the Red Force, bottle of sake in hand. Peace meant laughter and song. Quiet meant something was waiting.

"Captain!" A voice called from the crow's nest. "We found someone in the water!"

Shanks' single visible eye narrowed. A lone figure floated on a splintered plank — no struggle, no panic. Just… stillness.

When the crew pulled him aboard, the man stood without a word, dripping seawater and blood.

He was tall and thin, hair black as the depths below. His eyes, pale gray and oddly gentle, swept across the crew like someone studying an unfinished puzzle.

"Name?" Shanks asked, casual but cautious.

The man smiled faintly. "Fyodor. Dostoevsky."

The crew exchanged looks. Benn Beckman flicked his cigarette, muttering, "Doesn't sound local."

Shanks offered the man a drink. "You look like hell, friend. We'll patch you up. You part of a crew?"

Fyodor accepted the sake but didn't drink it. "Crew?" he repeated softly, as if testing the word. "No. I suppose you could say I was… excommunicated from humanity."

That earned a few uneasy chuckles. But Shanks only grinned wider.

"Well, lucky for you, we're a forgiving bunch. You can stay till we hit port. Unless you're trouble?"

"Trouble," Fyodor said, "depends on who defines it."

---

Later that night, the crew filled the galley with their usual chaos — song, laughter, Lucky Roux's booming voice over the clatter of plates.

Fyodor sat apart, at a corner table, writing notes in an old leather book. His handwriting was meticulous, almost too precise for a sailor's hand.

Makino was there too — brought aboard to tend to the wounded after their last scuffle with marines. She noticed him immediately.

He wasn't like the others. He didn't drink, didn't boast, didn't smile. Yet, something about him drew her eyes back again and again.

She approached, tray in hand.

"You haven't eaten," she said gently.

Fyodor looked up. The lantern light caught the faint violet in his eyes.

"I find food… distracting," he replied. "It pulls the body's focus away from thought."

She smiled despite herself. "Then have tea, at least. Even thinkers need warmth."

Fyodor hesitated — then nodded once. "A fair point."

As she poured the tea, he watched her hands. Steady, kind, unguarded.

Humans like her were rare — untouched by malice, too trusting for the world they lived in.

> Perhaps that's why she'll suffer someday, he thought, and a pang of guilt surprised him.

"Thank you," he said aloud, almost politely.

"You're welcome," Makino replied with a soft smile. "You talk like a philosopher, but you look like you haven't slept in a month."

Fyodor tilted his head. "Sleep is for those who dream. I… prefer to observe."

Before Makino could respond, Shanks dropped into the seat across from Fyodor, grinning. "You two getting cozy over there?"

Makino rolled her eyes. "Just being polite, Captain."

"Polite's good," Shanks said, taking a sip of sake. "But our new guest's still an enigma. So, Fyodor — what do you want?"

Fyodor's gaze shifted toward the window, where the moonlight touched the waves.

"What I want," he murmured, "is to see a world free of hypocrisy. A world where justice is absolute. No kings, no gods — just consequence."

The room went still for a moment. Even Shanks stopped smiling.

Then, he chuckled. "You talk like a revolutionary, my friend. Or a madman."

"Perhaps both."

Benn Beckman leaned against the doorframe, exhaling smoke. "You sound dangerous."

Fyodor looked at him calmly. "Only to those who sin."

A low hum of unease spread through the room. But Shanks just laughed again, shaking his head.

"You're welcome aboard, philosopher. But remember — on this ship, we value freedom, not judgment."

Fyodor's lips curved into a faint smile. "Freedom," he repeated softly, "is the most elaborate illusion of all."

---

That night, the Red Force drifted under a silver sky.

Fyodor sat alone in his cabin, candlelight flickering across his pages. He wrote without pause — thoughts spilling from his mind in elegant, precise strokes.

> 'The sea is honest,' he wrote. 'It takes without malice, gives without reason. If only mankind could learn from it.'

Outside, laughter echoed — Shanks and Makino sharing drinks under the stars.

Fyodor paused mid-sentence, listening to her laugh.

For a fleeting instant, something warm brushed against the cold machinery of his mind.

Then he closed the book, snuffed the candle, and returned to the dark.

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